"Your Majesty just now impressed on us the need of secrecy as to what passes between these walls. I think, sir, you would insist on the same thing with all who serve you confidentially. You haven't asked, sir, how the Prince became aware of the state of your Majesty's health."
The King started a little. "No, I forgot that. It was against my direct orders. How was it?"
Stenovics kept his eyes on the King; Markart and Stafnitz allowed themselves to study Lepage's features; he stood the scrutiny well.
"The news, sir, was betrayed by a man within these walls—a man in close touch with your Majesty."
"Natcheff!" exclaimed the King.
"Certainly not, sir. Another. This man, of whom I had suspicions, and whom I caused to be watched, went by night to the house of Monsieur Zerkovitch, who is, as you are aware, a close friend and (if I may use the word) an adherent of the Prince of Slavna. Their interview took place between nine and ten last night. At eleven Zerkovitch, having borrowed a horse from the Prince's stables, set out for Praslok. He rode hard through the night and reached the Castle, as Captain Markart has told us, in the small hours of the morning. There he had an interview with the Prince. He left Praslok between six and seven in the morning and arrived at his house on the south boulevard by eleven. At half-past eleven he walked up the Street of the Fountain, crossed St. Michael's Square, and entered a small inn in a little alley behind the Cathedral. Here the man I speak of was waiting for him. They were together half an hour. Zerkovitch then left. The man remained till one, then came out, and returned to the Palace by a circuitous route, arriving here about two o'clock. I venture to say that the meaning of all this is quite clear. This man is in communication with Praslok, using Zerkovitch as his intermediary. It's for your Majesty to say how far his disobedience in regard to acquainting the Prince with your condition is a serious offence. As to that I say nothing. But it will be obvious that this man should know nothing of any private measures undertaken or contemplated."
The King had listened carefully. "The case seems clear," he said. "This fellow's a traitor. He's done harm already, and may do more. What do you ask, General?"
"We might be content to let him know nothing. But who can be quite certain of insuring that? Sir, you have just arrived at a very important decision—to take certain action. Absolute secrecy is essential to its success. I've no wish to press hardly on this man, but I feel bound to urge that he should be put under arrest and kept in the charge of a person who is beyond suspicion until the action to which I refer has been successfully carried out."
"The precaution is an obvious one, and the punishment hardly sufficient." The King rose. "Do as you say, General. I leave you full discretion. And now I'll go to my room and rest. I'm very tired. Give me your arm, Lepage, and come and make me comfortable."
Lepage did not offer his arm. He was not looking at the King, nor listening to him; his eyes and his ears were for General Stenovics. Stenovics rose now and pointed his finger at Lepage.
"That, sir, is the man," said he.
"Lepage!" cried the King, and sank heavily into his seat with a bewildered face. Lepage—his familiar—the man he trusted!
The King's ambition and pride had quivered under the threat of a cruel blow; the charge against Lepage wounded him hardly less deeply. He regarded his body-servant with the trustful affection which grows on an indolent man in course of years—of countless days of consulting, trusting, relying on one ever present, ever ready, always trustworthy. Lepage had been with him nearly thirty years; there was hardly a secret of the King's manhood which he had not known and kept. At last had he turned traitor?
Stenovics had failed to allow for this human side of the matter; how much more alone the revelation would make the King feel, how much more exposed and helpless—just, moreover, when sickness made his invaluable servant more indispensable still. A forlorn dignity filled the King's simple question: "Is it true, Lepage?"
Lepage's impassivity vanished. He, too, was deeply moved. The sense of guilt was on him—of guilt against his master; it drove him on, beyond itself, to a fierce rage against those who had goaded him into his disobedience, whose action and plans had made his disobedience right. For right now he believed and felt it; his talks with Zerkovitch had crystallized his suspicions into confident certainty. He was carried beyond thinking of what effect his outburst might have on his own fortunes or how it might distress the already harassed King. He struck back fiercely at his accuser, all his national quickness of passion finding vent in the torrent of words he poured forth in excuse or justification. He spoke his native French, very quickly, one word jostling over another, his arms flying like windmills, and his hair bristling, as it seemed, with defiance.
"Yes, it's true, sir. I disobeyed your Majesty—for the first time in thirty years! For the first time in my life, sir, I did it! And why? Because it was right; because it was for honor. I was angry, yes! I had been scolded because Count Alexis bade me call him 'Prince,' and you heard me do it. Yes, I was angry. Was it my fault? Had I told him he was a prince? No! Who had told him he was a prince? Don't ask me, sir. Ask somebody else. For my part, I know well the difference between one who is a prince and one who is not. Oh, I'm not ignorant of that! I know, too, the difference between one who is a queen and one who is not—oh, with the utmost respect to Madame la Comtesse! But I know it—and I remember it. Does everybody else remember it?"
He stopped for a moment and clutched at his stiff, tight collar, as though to wrench it away from his neck, and let the stream of his words flow even more freely. While he paused, nobody spoke. Stenovics's heavy gaze was on the King, Stafnitz's eyes discreetly on the ceiling; the Countess looked scared. Had they made a mistake? Would it have been better to run the risk of what Lepage could do? The King's hands were on the table in front of him; they trembled where they lay.
"Why wasn't the Prince to know? Because then he wouldn't go on his journey! His journey after the German princess!" He faced Stenovics now, boldly and defiantly, pointing a forefinger at him. "Yes, they wanted him to go. Yes, they did! Why, sir? To marry a princess—a great princess? Was that what they wanted? Eh, but it would have been little use for Count Alexis to ask me to call him a prince then! And Madame la Comtesse—with the utmost respect to Madame la Comtesse—she wanted a great princess here? Oh, she wanted that mightily, to be sure!"
The King stirred uneasily in his chair.
"Sir, will you listen to him?" the Countess broke in.
His answer was cold: "I listen to every man before I order him to be punished."
"Yes, they wanted him to go. Yes, certainly! For he trains his men at Volseni, trains them for his big guns. When the men are trained and the guns have come—well, who'll call Count Alexis a prince then? Will even they who taught him to think himself a prince? Oh yes; they wanted him to go. And he wouldn't go if he knew your Majesty was ill. He loves your Majesty. Yes! But if he hated you, still would he go?" With a sudden turn he was round on Stenovics again, and threw out his arms as though to embrace a picture. "Look! The Prince is away, the guns are come, the King dies! Who commands in the Palace? Who governs Slavna?" He was back to the King with another swift turn. "May I answer, sir? May I tell you? The mother of Prince Alexis commands in the Palace; Slavna is ruled by the friends of Captain Mistitch!" His voice fell to an ironical murmur. "And the Prince is far off—seeking a great princess! Sir, do you see the picture?"
Stafnitz suddenly lowered his eyes from the ceiling and looked at the gesticulating little man with a smile.
"Such imagination in the servants' hall!" he murmured half under his breath.
The King neither rebuked his levity nor endorsed the insinuated satire. He took no notice at all. His eyes were fixed on his still trembling hands.
Stenovics spoke in a calm, smooth voice. "Absolutely, sir, I believe the man's honest!" he said, with an inflection of good-humored surprise. "One sees how he got the idea! I'm sure he's genuinely devoted to your Majesty, and to the Prince—as we all are. He sees something going on which he doesn't understand; he knows something more is going on that he's ignorant of. He knows the unfortunate condition of your Majesty's health. He's like a nurse—forgive me—in charge of a sick child; he thinks everybody but himself has designs on his charge. It's really natural, however absurd—but it surely makes the precaution I suggested even more necessary? If he went about spreading a tale like this!"
The line was clever—cleverer far than the Countess's rage, cleverer than Stafnitz's airily bitter sneer. But of it, too, the King took no notice. Lepage took no more than lay in a very scornful smile. He leaned down towards the motionless, dull-faced King, and said in his ear:
"They wanted him to go, yes! Did they want him to come back again, sir?" He bent a little lower, and almost whispered: "How long would his journey have taken, sir? How long would it have taken him to get back if—in case of need?" One more question he did not ask in words; but it was plain enough without them: "How long can your Majesty count on living?"
At last the King raised his head and looked round on them. His eyes were heavy and glassy.
"This man has been my trusted servant for many, many years. You, General Stenovics, have been my right hand, my other self. Colonel Stafnitz is high in my confidence. And Lepage is only my servant."
"I seek to stand no higher than any other of your Majesty's servants, except in so far as the nature of my services gives me a claim," said Stenovics.
"But there's one here who stands far nearer to me than any one, who stands nearer to me than any living being. She must know of this thing, if it's true; if it's being done, her hand must be foremost among the hands that are doing it." His eyes fixed themselves on the Countess's face. "Is it true?" he asked.
"Sir, how can you ask? How can you listen? True! It's a malignant invention. He's angry because I reproved him."
"Yes, I'm angry. I said so. But it's true for all that."
"Silence, Lepage! Am I to take your word against the Countess's?"
Markart, a silent listener to all this scene, thought that Lepage's game was up. Who could doubt what the Countess's word would be? Probably Lepage, too, thought that he was beaten, that he was a ruined man. For he played a desperate card—the last throw of a bankrupt player. Yet it was guided by shrewdness, and by the intimate knowledge which his years of residence in the Palace had given him. He knew the King well; and he knew Countess Ellenburg hardly less thoroughly.
"I speak truth, sir, as I believe it. But I can't expect you to take my word against the Countess's. I have too much respect for Madame la Comtesse to ask that."
Again he bent down towards the King; the King looked up at him; Stenovics's simile came back into the mind. In a low, soothing tone Lepage made his throw—his last suggestion. "Madame la Comtesse is of great piety. If Madame la Comtesse will take a solemn oath—well, then I'm content! I'll say I was mistaken—honest, I declare, sir, but mistaken."
Stenovics raised his head with a sharp jerk. Stafnitz smiled scornfully; he was thinking that Lepage was not, after all, a very resourceful fellow. An oath! Great Heavens! Oaths were in the day's work when you put your hand to affairs like this. But here Stenovics was wiser—and Lepage was shrewder. Stafnitz generalized from an experience rather one-sided; the other two knew the special case. When oaths were mentioned—solemn oaths—Stenovics scented danger.
The King knew his wife, too; and he was profoundly affected, convulsed to the depths of his mind. The thing sounded true—it had a horrible sound of truth. He craved the Countess's denial, solemn as it could be framed. That would restore the confidence which was crumbling from beneath his tormented, bewildered mind.
"Can anybody object to that," he asked slowly, "if I say it will relieve my mind?" He smiled apologetically. "I'm a sick man, you know. If it will relieve a sick man's mind, banish a sick man's fancies? If I shall sleep a little better—and old Lepage here be ashamed of himself?"
None of them dared to object. None could plausibly, unless the Countess herself—and she dared not. In his present mood the King would not accept the plea of her dignity; against it he would set the indulgence due to a sick man's rebellious fancies; could she, for her dignity's sake, deny him what would make him sleep?
He looked at her; something in her face appeared to strike him as strange. A sort of quiver ran through his body; he seemed to pull himself together with an effort; as he spoke to her, his voice sounded faint and ever so slightly blurred.
"You've heard Lepage, and I know that you'll speak the truth to me on your oath—the truth about the thing nearest to the heart of a dying man—nearest to the heart of your dying husband. You wouldn't lie on oath to a dying man, your husband and your King. For I am dying. You have years still; but they'll end. You believe that some day you and I will stand together before the Throne. As you shall answer to Heaven in that day, is this true? Was it in your heart, and in the heart of these men, to keep my son, the heir of my House, from his throne? Is it true? As you shall answer to God for your soul, is there any truth in it?"
The woman went gray in the face—a sheet of gray paper seemed drawn over her cheeks; her narrow lips showed a pale red streak across it. Her prayers—those laborious, ingenious, plausible prayers—helped her nothing here.
"I protest! At this time, sir! The Countess will be upset!"
Stenovics had been driven to this; he feared greatly. Not a soul heeded him; every eye now was on the woman. She struggled—she struggled to lie; she struggled to do what she believed would bring perdition to her soul. Her voice was forced and harsh when at last she broke silence.
"As I shall answer in that day—"
"As you shall answer to God for your soul in that day—" the King repeated.
She gave a wild glance at Stenovics, seeking succor, finding no refuge. Her eyes came back to the King's face. "As I shall answer—" Every word came forth by its own self, with its separate birth-pang—"As I shall answer to God for my soul—"
She stopped. There was silence while a man might count ten. She threw her hands above her head and broke into a violent torrent of sobs. "I can't! I can't!" they heard her say through her tumultuous weeping.
The King suddenly started back in his chair as though somebody had offered to strike him. "You—you—you, my wife! You, Stenovics! You, whom I trusted—trusted—trusted like—! Ah, is that you, Lepage? Did I hear rightly—wouldn't she swear?"
"With the utmost respect to Madame la Comtesse, she could not swear, sir."
The King sprang to his feet. "Go!" he cried.
They all rose—the Countess shaken with unconquerable sobs. But the next moment the King made a quick in-drawing of the breath, like a man suddenly pricked by some sharp thing. He dropped back in his chair; his head fell to meet his hands on the table in front. The hands were palms downward, and his forehead rested on his knuckles.
There was a moment's pause. Then Lepage darted from the room, crying: "Dr. Natcheff! Dr. Natcheff!" Stenovics wiped his brow. Stafnitz raised his head with a queer look at the King, and his mouth shaped for a whistle. The Countess's sobs seemed as though frozen, her whole frame was rigid. The King did not move.
Natcheff came rushing in; Lepage, who followed closely, shut the door after him. They both went to the King. There was silence while Natcheff made his examination. In a couple of minutes he turned round to them.
"Something has caused his Majesty strong agitation?"
"Yes," answered Stenovics.
"Yes!" said Natcheff. He cleared his throat and glanced doubtfully at the Countess.
"Well?" asked Stenovics.
Natcheff threw out his hands, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly:
"I regret to say that the effect is the worst possible. His Majesty is dead."
Silence again—a silence strangely broken. Stafnitz sprang across the room with a bound like a cat's, and caught the physician by the shoulder.
"No!" he said. "Not for twenty-four hours yet! His Majesty dies—to-morrow!"
"His Majesty dies—to-morrow!"
Stafnitz's words seemed to freeze them all stiff where they stood; even Countess Ellenburg's sobs, which had threatened to break forth again, were arrested in their flow.
"Markart, lock the door leading to the King's apartments. Natcheff and Lepage, carry the King into his bedroom; lay him on the bed; stay there till I call you. Countess, General, I invite your earnest attention."
Stenovics's mind excelled in the waiting game, the slow, tortuous approach, the inch-by-inch advance of leisurely diplomacy. For him this crisis was at first too sudden. The swift and daring intellect of Stafnitz naturally and inevitably took the lead; his strong will fascinated his confederates.
"Is this to be the beginning or the end?" he asked. "For us and our friends—which? If we send a courier to Praslok to call King Sergius to his capital—what then? For you, Countess, and your son, oblivion and obscurity at Dobrava—for all the rest of your life, just that! For you, General, and for me, and our friends—yes, you too, Markart!—ourcongé, more or less civilly given. There won't be more insignificant men in all Slavna on the day King Sergius enters. But there's no King Sergius yet!"
Stenovics was regaining the use of his brain; his eyes grew distant in deep meditation. Countess Ellenburg looked eager and grim; her lips could not swear a false oath—well, she was not asked to swear any oath now. Markart could not think; he stood staring at Stafnitz.
"In half an hour that courier must start for Praslok, if he starts at all. Of all things, we mustn't hesitate."
He had painted the result to them of the coming of King Sergius; it meant the defeat of years of effort; it entailed the end of hopes, of place, of power or influence. There was no future for those three in Kravonia if King Sergius came. And Markart, of course, seemed no more than one of Stenovics's train.
"And if the courier doesn't start?" asked Stenovics. He took out and lit a cigar, asking no leave of the Countess; probably he hardly knew that he was smoking it.
Stafnitz looked at his watch. "Five o'clock! We have twenty-four hours—it would be risky to keep the secret longer. There's not much time; we must be prompt. But we mustn't sacrifice anything to hurry. For instance, it would look odd to present the King's orders to Baroness Dobrava in the middle of the night! She'd smell a rat, if she's as clever as they say. And so would the Prince, I think. I could have a hundred men at Praslok by midnight, but I shouldn't propose to have them there before eleven o'clock to-morrow. Well, they could be back here by five in the afternoon! In the course of the day we'll occupy all the important points of the city with troops we can trust. Then, in the evening—as soon as we see how matters have gone at Praslok—we proclaim King Alexis!"
The Countess gave a little shiver—whether of fear or of eagerness it was impossible to tell. Stenovics drummed his fingers on the table and turned his cigar quickly round and round in his mouth. Markart had recovered his clearness of mind and closely watched all the scene.
The Countess rose suddenly—in strong agitation. "I—I can't bear it," she said. "With him lying there! Let me go! Presently—presently you shall tell me—anything."
Stenovics laid down his cigar and went to her. "Wait in there"—he pointed to Natcheff's room—"till you're quite composed. Then go to your own room and wait till I come. Mind, Countess, no sign of agitation!" He led her out. Stafnitz shrugged his shoulders.
"She'll be all right," he said to Markart with a passing smile.
"I think she was fond of the King," said Markart.
Stenovics returned. "Now!" he said, seating himself again and resuming his cigar. "You suggest that we still use that order—for the arrest of Baroness Dobrava?"
"It's signed 'Alexis,' and King Alexis lives till five to-morrow. Moreover, if all goes well, King Alexis lives again for many years after that."
Stenovics nodded slightly. "The Baroness comes willingly—or you bring her? At any rate, one way or the other, she's in our hands by this time to-morrow?"
"Exactly, General. I fail to perceive that this lamentable event"—he waved his hand towards the King's empty chair—"alters the case as regards the Baroness one jot."
"Not the least—unless you consider that risking our heads on the throw has any such effect," replied Stenovics; and for the first time he smiled.
"Once you wanted to play the big stake on a bad hand, General. Won't you put it on the table now, when you've a good one?"
"I'm thinking of a certain strong card in the other hand which you haven't mentioned yet. Baroness Dobrava is to be in our power by this time to-morrow. But what will the Prince of Slavna be doing? Still drilling his men at Volseni, still waiting for his guns?"
Stafnitz looked him full in the face. "No," he said. "The Prince had better not still be drilling his men at Volseni, nor waiting for his guns."
"I think not, too," Stenovics agreed, twisting his cigar round again.
"General, do you think the Prince will let Baroness Dobrava come to Slavna without him?"
"I don't know. He might have confidence enough in you; he wouldn't wish to annoy or agitate the King. He might await his summons to an audience. On the whole, I think he would submit—and rely on being able to induce the King to alter his mind when they met. I'm not sure he wouldn't advise her to go with you."
"Well, yes, I confess that struck me, too, as rather likely—or at least possible."
"If it happened, it wouldn't be convenient," said Stenovics, with a patient sigh. "Because he would come after her in a day or two."
"But if I were detained by urgent business in Slavna—and we've agreed that there's work to be done to-morrow in Slavna—another officer would go to Praslok. The order, which I have here, mentions no name, although the King designated me by word of mouth."
"The order mentions no name?"
"No; it directs the Baroness to accompany the bearer. True, at the foot my name is written—'Entrusted to Colonel Stafnitz.' But with care and a pair of scissors—!" He smiled at Markart again, as though taking him into the joke.
"Well, well, suppose another officer goes to Praslok—why shouldn't the Prince trust the Baroness to the care of that officer as readily as to you? You don't—how shall I put it?—monopolize his confidence, Colonel."
Stafnitz still wore his easy, confidential smile, as he answered with an air of innocent slyness: "Suppose the officer were—Captain Mistitch? I think it's just the job for Captain Hercules!"
Even Stenovics started a little at that. He laid down his cigar and looked at his friend the Colonel for some seconds. Then he looked at Markart, smiling, seeming to ponder, to watch how Markart was taking it, even to sympathize with Markart on having to consider a rather startling proposal, on having, possibly, to do some little violence to his feelings. Certainly Captain Markart gathered the impression that Stenovics was doubtful how he would stand this somewhat staggering suggestion. At last the General turned his eyes back to Stafnitz again.
"That's as ingenious a bit of deviltry as I ever heard, Colonel," he remarked quietly.
"Captain Mistitch is restored to duty. He's of proper rank to perform such a service, and to command an escort of a hundred men. After all, an officer of my rank made a certain concession in accepting so small a command."
"Of course, if the Prince knew you as I do, my dear Colonel, he'd trust her to a thousand Mistitches sooner than to you—"
"But then—he doesn't!" the Colonel smiled.
"He'd regard the sending of Mistitch as a deliberate insult."
"I'm afraid he would."
"He's hot-tempered. He'd probably say as much."
"Yes. And Mistitch is hot-tempered. He'd probably resent the observation. But you'll remember, General, that the escort is to be large enough to make the officer commanding it secure against hinderance by any act short of open and armed resistance to the King's command."
"He'll never believe the King would send Mistitch!"
"Will that make his peaceable obedience more likely?"
"In a moment they'd be at each other's—" He stopped. "Markart, go and see if they need anything in there." He pointed to the King's bedroom, where Natcheff and Lepage were.
Markart rose and obeyed. His head was swimming; he hardly yet understood how very ingenious the ingenious deviltry was, how the one man was to be sent whose directions the Prince could not submit to, whose presence was an insult, to whom it was impossible to entrust Baroness Dobrava. He was very glad to get out of the room. The last he saw was Stafnitz drawing his chair close up to Stenovics and engaging in low-voiced, earnest talk.
The King's body lay on the bed, decently disposed, and covered with a large fur rug. Lepage sat on a chair near by, Natcheff on another in the window. Both looked up for a moment as Markart entered, but neither spoke. Markart found a third chair and sat down. Nobody said anything; the three were as silent and almost as still as the fourth on the bed. A low murmur of voices came from the next room; the words were indistinguishable. So passed full half an hour—a strange and terrible half-hour it seemed to Markart.
The door opened, and Stafnitz called Natcheff. The physician rose and followed him. Another twenty minutes went by, still in silence; but once Markart, looking for a moment at his mute companion, saw a tear rolling slowly down Lepage's wrinkled cheek. Lepage saw him looking and broke the silence:
"I suppose I helped to kill him!"
Markart shrugged his shoulders helplessly. Silence came again. Very long it seemed; but, on looking at his watch, Markart found that it was not yet half-past six.
Again the door opened, and Stafnitz called to them both. They followed him into the next room. Stenovics was sitting at the table with his hands clasped on it in front of him. Stafnitz took up a position by his side, standing as though on duty. Natcheff had disappeared. Stenovics spoke in calm, deliberate tones; he seemed to have assumed command of the operations again.
"Captain Markart, I'm about to entrust to you an important and responsible duty. For the next twenty-four hours, and afterwards until relieved by my orders, you will be in charge of this man Lepage, and will detain him in these apartments. His own room and this room will be at the disposal of yourself and your prisoner, but you must not let the prisoner out of your sight. Dr. Natcheff remains in his room. He will have access to the King's room when he desires, but he will not leave the suite of apartments. Beyond seeing to this, you will have no responsibility for him. The door leading to the suite will be locked by me, and will be opened only by me, or by my orders. I remain at the Palace to-night; under me Captain Sterkoff will be the officer on guard. He will himself supply you with any meals or other refreshments which you may require. Ring this hand-bell on the table—no other bell, mind—and he will be with you immediately. Do you understand your orders?"
Markart understood them very well; there was no need of Stafnitz's mocking little smile to point the meaning. Markart was to be Lepage's jailer, Sterkoff was to be his. Under the most civil and considerate form he was made as close a prisoner as the man he guarded. Evidently, Stenovics had come to the conclusion that he could not ask Markart to put too great a strain on his conscience! The General, however, seemed very kindly disposed towards him, and was, indeed, almost apologetic:
"I've every hope that this responsible and, I fear, very irksome duty may last only the few hours I mentioned. You put me under a personal obligation by undertaking it, my dear Markart."
In the absence of any choice, Markart saluted and answered: "I understand my orders, General."
Stafnitz interposed: "Captain Sterkoff is also aware of their purport."
Stenovics looked vexed. "Yes, yes, but I'm sure Markart himself is quite enough." It seems odd that, in the midst of such a transaction as that in which he was now engaged, Stenovics should have found leisure—or heart—to care about Markart's feeling. Yet so it was—a curiously human touch creeping in! He shut Markart up only under the strongest sense of necessity and with great reluctance. Probably Stafnitz had insisted, in the private conversation which they had held together: Markart had shown such evident signs of jibbing over the job proposed for Captain Hercules!
Lepage's heart was wrung, but his spirit was not broken. Stafnitz's ironical smile called an answering one to his lips.
"It would console my feelings if I also were put in charge of somebody, General," he said. "Shall I, in my turn, keep an eye on Dr. Natcheff, or report if the Captain here is remiss in the duty of keeping himself a prisoner?"
"I don't think you need trouble yourself, Monsieur Lepage. Captain Sterkoff will relieve you of responsibility." To Lepage, too, Stenovics was gentle, urbane, almost apologetic.
"And how long am I to live, General?"
"You're in the enviable position, Monsieur Lepage, of being able, subject to our common mortality, to settle that for yourself. Come, come, we'll discuss matters again to-morrow night or the following morning. There are many men who prefer not to do things, but will accept a thing when it's done. They're not necessarily unwise. I've done no worse to you than give you the opportunity of being one of them. I think you'll be prudent to take it. Anyhow, don't be angry; you must remember that you've given us a good deal of trouble."
"Between us we have killed the King."
Stenovics waved his hands in a commiserating way. "Practical men mustn't spend time in lamenting the past," he said.
"Nor in mere conversation, however pleasant," Stafnitz broke in with a laugh. "Captain Markart, march your prisoner to his quarters."
His smile made the order a mockery. Markart felt it, and a hatred of the man rose in him. But he could do nothing. He did not lead Lepage to his quarters, but followed sheepishly in his prisoner's wake. They went together into the little room where Lepage slept.
"Close quarters too, Captain!" said the valet. "There is but one chair—let me put it at your service." He himself sat down on the bed, took out his tobacco, and began to roll himself a cigarette.
Markart shut the door and then threw himself on the solitary chair, in a heavy despondency of spirit and a confused conflict of feelings. He was glad to be out of the work, yet he resented the manner in which he was put aside. There were things going on in which it was well to have no hand. Yet was there not a thing going on in which every man ought to have a hand, on one side or the other? Not to do it, but to be ready to accept it when done! He was enough of a soldier to feel that there lay the worst, the meanest thing of all. Not to dare to do it, but to profit by the doing! Stenovics had used the words to Lepage, his prisoner. By making him in effect a prisoner, too, the General showed that he applied them to the Captain also. Anything seemed better than that—ay, it would be better to ride to Praslok behind Captain Hercules! In that adventure a man might, at least, risk his life!
"An odd world!" said the valet, puffing out his cigarette smoke. "Honest men for prisoners, and murderers for jailers! Are you a prisoner or a jailer, Captain Markart?"
To say the truth, the word "murderers" seemed to Captain Markart more than a little harsh. To use it was to apply to Kravonian affairs the sterner standards of more steady-going, squeamish countries. Acoup d'étatmay well involve fighting; fighting naturally includes killing. But are the promoters of thecouptherefore murderers? Murderers with a difference, anyhow, according to Kravonian ideas, which Captain Markart was inclined to share. Moreover, acoup d'étatis war; the suppression of information is legitimate in war. If the Prince of Slavna could not find out for himself what had happened in the Palace, were his opponents bound to tell him? In fact, given that an attempt to change the succession in your own interest was not a crime, but a legitimate political enterprise, the rest followed.
Except Mistitch! It was difficult to swallow Mistitch. There was a mixture of ingenuity and brutality about that move which not even Kravonian notions could easily accept. If Stafnitz had gone—nay, if he himself had been sent—probably Markart's conscience would not have rebelled. But to send Captain Hercules—that was cogging the dice! Yet he was very angry that Stenovics should have divined his feelings and shut him up. The General distrusted his courage as well as his conscience—there lay the deepest hurt to Markart's vanity; it was all the deeper because in his heart he had to own that Stenovics read him right. Not only the brazen conscience was lacking, but also the iron nerve.
Getting no answer to his unpleasantly pointed question, Lepage relapsed into silence. He stood by the window, looking out on the lawn which sloped down to the Krath. Beyond the river the lights of Slavna glowed in the darkening sky. Things would be happening in Slavna soon; Lepage might well look at the city thoughtfully. As a fact, however, his mind was occupied with one problem only—where was Zerkovitch and how could he get at him? For Lepage did not waver—he had taken his line.
Presently, however, his professional instincts seemed to reassert themselves. He opened a cupboard in the room and brought out a clean pair of sheets, which he proceeded to arrange on the bed. Busy at this task, he paused to smile at Markart and say: "We must do the best we can, Captain. After all, we have both camped, I expect! Here's the bed for you—you'll do finely." He went back to the cupboard and lugged out a mattress. "And this is for me—the shake-down on the floor which I use when I sleep in the King's room—or did use, I should say. In my judgment, Captain, it's comfortable to go to bed on the floor—at least, one can't fall."
It was eight o'clock. They heard the outer door of the suite of rooms open and shut. A man was moving about in the next room; if they could judge by the sound of his steps, he also paid Dr. Natcheff a brief visit. They heard the clink of dishes and of glass.
"Dinner!" said Lepage. "Ah, that's not unwelcome! Have I permission?" Markart nodded, and he opened the door. On the table in the sitting-room was a savory dish, bread, and two bottles of wine. Captain Sterkoff was just surveying the board he had spread, with his head on one side. There was nothing peculiar in that; his head was permanently stuck on one side—a list to starboard—since the Virgin with the lamp had injured the vertebræ of his neck. But the attitude, together with his beaked nose, made him look like a particularly vicious parrot. Markart saw him through the open door and could not get the resemblance out of his mind.
"Supper, gentlemen!" said Sterkoff with malevolent mirth. "The Doctor can't join you. He's a little upset and keeps his bed. A good appetite! I trust not to be obliged to disturb you again to-night."
Markart had come in by now, but he was too surly and sore to speak. Without a word he plumped down into a chair by the table and rested his chin on his hands, staring at the cloth. It was left to Lepage to bow to Sterkoff, and to express their joint thanks. This task he performed with sufficient urbanity. Then he broke into a laugh.
"They must think it odd to see you carrying dishes and bottles about the Palace, Captain?"
"Possibly," agreed Sterkoff. "But you see, my friend, what they think in the Palace doesn't matter very much, so long as none of them can get outside."
"Oh, they none of them spend the evening out?"
"Would they wish to, when the King has an attack of influenza, and Dr. Natcheff is in attendance? It would be unfeeling, Lepage!"
"Horribly, Captain! Probably even the sentries would object?"
"It's possible they would," Sterkoff agreed again. He drew himself up and saluted Markart, who did not move or pay any attention. "Good-night, Lepage." He turned to the door; his head seemed more cocked on one side than ever. Lepage bade him "Good-night" very respectfully; but as the key turned in the door, he murmured longingly: "Ah, if I could knock that ugly mug the rest of the way off his shoulders!"
He treated Markart with no less respect than he had accorded to Sterkoff; he would not hear of sitting down at table with an officer, but insisted on handing the dish and uncorking the wine. Markart accepted his attentions and began to eat languidly, with utter want of appetite.
"Some wine, Captain, some wine to cheer you up in this tiresome duty of guarding me!" cried Lepage, picking up a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. "Oh, but that wry-necked fellow has brought you a dirty glass! A moment, Captain! I'll wash it." And off he bounded—not even waiting to set down the bottle—into the little room beyond.
His brain was working hard now, marshalling his resources against his difficulties. The difficulties were thirty feet to fall, Sterkoff's sentries, the broad, swift current of the Krath—for even in normal times there was always a sentry on the bridge—then the search for Zerkovitch in Slavna. His resources were a mattress, a spare pair of sheets, and a phial half full of the draught which Dr. Natcheff had prescribed for the King.
"It's very unfortunate, but I've not the least notion how much would kill him," thought Lepage, as he poured the medicine—presumably a strong sedative—into the wine-glass and filled up with wine from the bottle Sterkoff had provided. He came back, holding the glass aloft with a satisfied air. "Now it's fit for a gentleman to drink out of," said he, as he set it down by Markart's hand. The Captain took it up and swallowed it at a draught.
"Ugh! Corked, I think! Beastly, anyhow!" said he.
"They poison us as well as shut us up!" cried Lepage in burlesque anger. "Try the other bottle, Captain!"
The other bottle was better, said Markart, and he drank pretty well the whole of it, Lepage standing by and watching him with keen interest. It was distressing not to know how much of the King's draught would kill; it had been necessary to err on the safe side—the side safe for Lepage, that is.
Captain Markart thought he would smoke his cigar in the little room, lying on the bed; he was tired and sleepy—very sleepy, there was no denying it. Lepage sat down and ate and drank; he found no fault with the wine in the first bottle. Then he went and looked at Markart. The Captain lay in his shirt, breeches, and boots. He was sound asleep and breathing heavily; his cigar had fallen on the sheet, but apparently had been out before it fell. Lepage regarded him with pursed lips, shrugged his shoulders, and slipped the Captain's revolver into his pocket. The Captain's recovery must be left to Fate.
For the next hour he worked at his pair of sheets, slicing, twisting, and splicing. In the end he found himself possessed of a fairly stout rope twelve or thirteen feet long, but he could find nothing solid to tie it to near the window, except the bed, and that was a yard away. He would still have a fall of some twenty feet, and the ground was hard with a spring frost. There would be need of the mattress. He put out all the lights in the room and cautiously raised the window.
The night was dark, he could not see the ground. He stood there ten minutes. Then he heard a measured tramp; a dark figure, just distinguishable, came round the corner of the Palace, walked past the window to the end of the building, turned, walked back, and disappeared. Hurriedly Lepage struck a match and took the time. Again he waited, again the figure came. Again he struck a light and took the time. He went through this process five times before he felt reasonably sure that he could rely on having ten minutes to himself if he started the moment Sterkoff's sentry had gone round the corner of the building.
He pulled the mattress up onto the sill of the window and waited. There was no sound now but of Markart's stertorous breathing. But presently the measured tramp below came, passed, turned, and passed away. Lepage gave a last tug at the fastenings of his rope, threw the end out of window, took the mattress, and dropped it very carefully as straight down as he could.
The next moment, in spite of Sterkoff, somebody had left the Palace. Why not? The runaway was aware that the King was not really suffering from influenza—he could spend an evening in Slavna without reproach!
"I wish I knew the safest way to fall!" thought Lepage, dangling at the end of his rope. It swayed about terribly; he waited awhile for it to steady itself—he feared to miss the mattress; but he could not wait long, or that measured tramp and that dark figure would come. There would be a sudden spurt of light, and a report—and what of Lepage then? He gathered his legs up behind his knees, took a long breath—and fell. As luck would have it, though he landed on the very edge of the mattress, yet he did land on it, and tumbled forward on his face, shaken, but with bones intact. There was a numb feeling above his knees—nothing worse than that.
He drew another long breath. Heavy bodies—and even mattresses—fall quickly; he must have seven or eight minutes yet!
But no! Heavy bodies, even mattresses, falling quickly, make a noise. Lepage, too, had come down with a thud, squashing hidden air out of the interstices of the mattress. The silence of night will give resonance to gentler sounds than that, which was as though a giant had squeezed his mighty sponge. Lepage, on his numb knees, listened. The steps came, not measured now, but running. The dark figure came running round the corner. What next? Next the challenge—then the spurt of light and the report! What of Lepage then? Nothing—so far as Lepage and the rest of humanity for certainty knew.
Of that nothing—actual or possible—Lepage did not approve. He hitched the mattress onto his back, bent himself nearly double, and, thus both burdened and protected, made for the river. He must have looked like a turtle scurrying to the sea, lest he should be turned over—and so left for soup in due season.
"Who goes there? Halt! Halt!"
The turtle scurried on; it was no moment to stop and discuss matters.
The spurt of light, the report! There was a hole in the mattress, but well above Lepage's head. Indeed, if hit at all, he was not most likely to be hit in the head; that vital portion of him was tucked away too carefully. He presented a broader aim; but the mattress masked him nobly.
There was another shot—the northwest corner of the mattress this time. But the mattress was on the river's edge. The next instant it was floating on the current of the Krath, and Sterkoff's sentry was indulging in some very pretty practice at it. He hit it every time, until the swift current carried it round the bend and out of sight.
The whole thing seemed strange and rather uncanny to the sentry. He grounded his rifle and wiped his brow. It had looked like a carpet taking a walk on its own account—and then a swim! Superior officers might be accustomed to such strange phenomena. The sentry was not. He set off at a round pace to the guard-room; he did not even stay to notice the white rope which dangled in the air from a first-floor window. Had he stopped, he would have heard Markart's invincible, drug-laden snoring.
Lepage had separated himself from his good friend and ally, the mattress, and dived under water while the sentry blazed away. He welcomed the current which bore him rapidly from the dangerous neighborhood of the Palace. He came to the surface fifty feet down stream and made for the other side. He could manage no more than a very slanting course, but he was a strong swimmer, lightly dressed, with an in-door man's light kid shoes. He felt no distress; rather a vivid, almost gleeful, excitement came upon him as he battled with the strong, cold stream. He began to plume himself on the mattress. Only a Frenchman would have thought of that! A Slavna man would have ran away with unguarded flanks. A Volsenian would have stayed to kill the sentry, and be shot down by Sterkoff's guard. Only a Frenchman would have thought of the mattress!
He made land a quarter of a mile below the Palace. Ah, it was colder on the road there than struggling with the cold water! But his spirit was not quenched. He laughed again—a trifle hysterically, perhaps. In spite of Sterkoff he was spending the evening out! He set his feet for Slavna—briskly, too! Nay, he ran, for warmth's sake, and because of what the sentry might even now be reporting to Sterkoff, and, through him, to General Stenovics. The thought brought him to a stand-still again; there might be a cordon of sentries across the road! After a moment's hesitation he broke away from the main road, struck due south, and so ran when he could, walked when he must, two miles.
He was getting terribly tired now, but not cold—rather he was feverishly hot inside his clammy garments. He turned along a country cross-road which ran west, and passed through a village, leaving the Hôtel de Paris on the main road far to his right. At last he reached the main road south and turned up it, heading again for Slavna and for the bridge which crossed the South River. He passed the bridge without being challenged as the Cathedral clock struck midnight from St. Michael's Square. The worst of his task was accomplished. If now he could find Zerkovitch!
But he was sore spent; running was out of the question now; he slunk slowly and painfully along the south boulevard, clinging close to the fences of the gardens, seeking the shelter of the trees which overhung them.
Draggled, hatless, dirty, infinitely weary, at last he reached Zerkovitch's house at the corner where the boulevard and the Street of the Fountain meet. He opened the garden gate and walked in. Spent as he was, he breathed a "Bravo!" when he saw a light burning in the hall. He staggered on, rang the bell, and fairly fell in a lump outside the door.
He had done well; he, a man of peace, busy with clothes—he had done well that night! But he was finished. When Zerkovitch opened the door, he found little more than a heap of dank and dirty raiment; he hauled it in and shut the door. He supported Lepage into the study, sat him down by the fire, and got brandy for him to drink, pouring out full half a tumbler. Lepage took it and drank the better part of it at a gulp.
"The King died at five o'clock, Monsieur Zerkovitch," he said. He drank the rest, let the tumbler fall with a crash in the fender, buried his head on his breast, and fell into blank unconsciousness.
He was out of the battle—as much as Markart, who slept the clock round in spite of Stenovics's shakings and Dr. Natcheff's rubbings and stimulants. But he had done his part. It was for Zerkovitch to do his now.
The King had died at five o'clock? It was certainly odd, that story, because Zerkovitch had just returned from the offices ofThe Patriot; and, immediately before he left, he had sent down to the foreman-printer an officialcommuniqué, to be inserted in his paper. It was to the effect that Captain Mistitch and a guard of honor of fifty men would leave Slavna next morning at seven o'clock for Dobrava, to be in readiness to receive the King, who had made magnificent progress, and was about to proceed to his country seat to complete his convalescence.
Captain Mistitch and a guard of honor for Dobrava! Zerkovitch decided that he would, if possible, ride ahead of them to Dobrava—that is, part of the way. But first he called his old housekeeper and told her to put Lepage to bed.
"Don't worry about anything he says. He's raving," he added thoughtfully.
But poor Lepage raved no more that night. He did not speak again till all was over. He had done his part.
At five o'clock in the morning, Zerkovitch left Slavna, hidden under a sack in a carrier's cart. He obtained a horse at a high price from a farmer three miles along the road, and thence set out for the Castle at his best speed. At six, Captain Mistitch, charged with Stafnitz's careful instructions, set out with his guard of honor along the same road—going to Dobrava to await the arrival of the King, who lay dead in the Palace on the Krath!
But since they started at six, and not at seven, as the officialcommuniquéled Zerkovitch to suppose, he had an hour less to spare than he thought. Moreover, they went not fifty strong, but one hundred.
These two changes—of the hour and the force—were made as soon as Stenovics and Stafnitz learned of Lepage's escape. A large force and a midnight march would have aroused suspicion in Slavna. The General did what he could safely do to meet the danger which the escape suggested—the danger that news of the King's death might be carried to Praslok before Mistitch and his escort got there.
After his happy holiday the Prince slept well, and rose in a cheerful mood—still joyful of heart. He anticipated that the day would bring him a summons from his father; he had little doubt that in the course of a personal interview he could persuade the King to agree to a postponement of his journey. Of Sophy he meant to say nothing—by a reservation necessary and not inexcusable. It was impossible not to take into account the knowledge he had acquired of the state of the King's health. The result of that condition was that his provision must, in all likelihood, be for months only, and not for years. The task for the months was to avoid disturbing the King's mind, so long as this course was consistent with the maintenance of his own favorable position. It must be remembered that no man in the kingdom built more on this latter object than the King himself; no man was less a partisan of Countess Ellenburg and of young Alexis than the husband of the one and the father of the other. The royal line—the line which boasted Bourbon blood—was for the King the only line of Stefanovitch.
Of the attack prepared against him the Prince knew nothing—nothing even of the King's mind having been turned against the Baroness Dobrava, whom so short a time ago he had delighted to honor; nothing, of course, of Stafnitz's audaciouscoup, nor of the secret plan which Stenovics and the Colonel had made, and of which Mistitch was to be the instrument. Of all the salient features of the situation, then, he was ignorant, and his ignorance was shared by those about his person. On the other hand, Stenovics had his finger on every thread save one—the Lepage-Zerkovitch thread, if it may so be called. That was important, but its importance might be nullified if Mistitch made good speed.
On the whole, the odds were much in favor of the coterie. If by any means they could prevent the King from coming alive and free to Slavna, the game would be theirs. If he did come alive and free, their game would probably be up. His presence would mean a hard fight—or a surrender; and Slavna had no stomach for such a fight—though it would be piously thankful to be rid of Sergius, whether as Prince or King, without the necessity of an ordeal so severe.
As a preliminary to the summons he anticipated, and to a possible stay of some days with his father at Slavna, the Prince had details to discuss and routine business to transact with Lukovitch, the captain of his battery in Volseni. He was early on horseback; Sophy and Max von Hollbrandt (Max's stay at the Castle was to end the next day) rode with him as far as the gates of the city; there they left him and turned down into the plain, to enjoy a canter on the banks of Lake Talti. The three were to meet again for the mid-day meal at Praslok. Marie Zerkovitch had been ailing, and kept her bed in the morning. The Prince's mounted guard rode behind him and his friends to Volseni, for the sake of exercising their horses. In the Castle there were left only Marie Zerkovitch and the servants. The Prince did not anticipate that any message would come from the Palace before noon at the earliest.
Morning avocations pursued their usual peaceful and simple course at the Castle; old Vassip, his wife, and the maids did their cleaning; Peter Vassip saw to his master's clothes, and then, to save his father labor, began to sluice the wooden causeway; the stablemen groomed their horses—they had been warned that the Prince might want another mount later in the day. Marie Zerkovitch lay in her bed, sleeping soundly after a restless night. There seemed no hint of trouble in the air. It must be confessed that up to now it looked as though Praslok would be caught napping.
It was Peter Vassip, busy on the causeway, who first saw Zerkovitch. He rested and leaned on his mop to watch the head which rose over the hill, the body that followed, the farm-horse lumbering along in a slow, clumsy, unwilling gallop. The man was using stick and spur—he was riding mercilessly. Peter ran down to the road and waited. A groom came across from the stables and joined him.
"He's got no call to treat the horse like that, whoever he is," the groom observed.
"Not unless he's on urgent business," said Peter, twirling the water from his mop.
Zerkovitch was up to them; he leaped from his horse. "I must see the Prince," he cried, "and immediately!"
"The Prince is at Volseni, sir; he rode over to see Captain Lukovitch."
"When will he be back?"
"We don't expect him till twelve o'clock."
Zerkovitch snatched out his watch.
"There's nobody here but Madame Zerkovitch, sir; she's still in bed, not very well, sir."
"Twelve o'clock!" muttered Zerkovitch, paying no heed to the news about his wife.
"The Baroness and Baron von Hollbrandt are out riding—"
"Can you give me a fresh horse? I must ride on and find the Prince at Volseni."
"Oh yes, sir." He signed to the groom. "And hurry up!" he added.
"The guard's here, of course?"
"No, sir. They've gone with the Prince."
Zerkovitch twitched his head irritably and again looked at his watch. "There must be time," he said. "They can't be here at soonest for an hour and a half."
Peter Vassip did not understand him, but neither did he venture to ask questions.
"Your horse 'll be here in a minute, sir. I think you'll find the Prince in his office over the city gate. He went to do business, not to drill, this morning."
Zerkovitch looked at him for a moment, wondering, perhaps, whether he would be wise to tell his news. But what was the use of telling Peter Vassip? Or his own wife? What could she do? It was for the Prince to say who should be told. The one thing was to find the Prince. There was time—at the very least an hour and a half.
The groom brought the fresh horse, and Zerkovitch began to mount.
"A glass of wine, sir?" Peter Vassip suggested. He had marked Zerkovitch's pale face and strained air; he had wondered to see his clothes sprinkled with whitey-brown fibres—traces of the sack under whose cover he had slid out of Slavna.
Zerkovitch was in the saddle. "No," he answered. "But a bumper, Peter, when I've found the Prince!" He set spurs to his horse and was off at a gallop for Volseni; the road, though high on the hills, was nearly level now.
Peter scratched his head as he looked after him for a moment; then he returned to his mop.
He was just finishing his task, some twenty minutes later, when he heard Sophy's laugh. She and Hollbrandt came from a lane which led up from the lake and joined the main road a hundred yards along towards Volseni. Peter ran and took their horses, and they mounted the causeway in leisurely, pleasant chat. Sophy was in her sheepskin uniform; her cheeks were pale, but the Star glowed. The world seemed good to her that morning.
"And that is, roughly, the story of my life," she said with a laugh, as she reached the top of the causeway and leaned against the rude balustrade which ran up the side of it.
"A very interesting one—even very remarkable," he said, returning her laugh. "But much more remains to be written, I don't doubt, Baroness."
"Something, perhaps," said Sophy.
"A good deal, I imagine!"
She shot a mischievous glance at him: she knew that he was trying to lure from her an avowal of her secret. "Who can tell? It all seems like a dream sometimes, and dreams end in sudden awakenings, you know."
"If it's a dream, you make an excellent dream-lady, Baroness."
Peter Vassip put his mop and pail down by the stables, and came up and stood beside them.
"Did the mare carry you well to-day, sir?" he asked Max.
"Admirably, Peter. We had a splendid ride—at least I thought so. I hope the Baroness—?"
Sophy threw out her arms as though to embrace the gracious world. "I thought it beautiful; I think everything beautiful to-day. I think you beautiful, Baron von Hollbrandt—and Peter is beautiful—and so is your mother, and so is your father, Peter. And I half believe that, just this morning—this one splendid morning—I'm beautiful myself. Yes, in spite of this horrible mark on my cheek!"
"I hear something," said Peter Vassip.
"Just this morning—this one splendid morning—I agree with you," laughed Max. "Not even the mark shall change my mind! Come, you love the mark—the Red Star—don't you?"
"Well, yes," said Sophy, with a little, confidential nod and smile.
"I hear something," said Peter Vassip, with his hand to his ear.
Sophy turned to him, smiling. "What do you hear, Peter?"
He gave a sudden start of recollection. "Ah, has that anything to do with Monsieur Zerkovitch?"
"Monsieur Zerkovitch?" broke from them both.
"He's been here; he's ridden at a gallop on to Volseni—to find the Prince." He added briefly all there was to add—his hand at his ear all the time.
"Hum! That looks like news," said Max. "What can it be?"
"He didn't stop even to tell Marie! It must be urgent."
They looked in one another's faces. "Can there be—be anything wrong in Slavna?"
"You mean—the troops?"
"I had thought of that."
"I can think of nothing but that. If it were anything from the Palace, it would come by a royal courier sooner than by any other hand."
"I can hear plainly now," said Peter Vassip. "Listen!"
They obeyed him, but their ears were not so well trained. A dull, indefinite sound was all they could distinguish.
"Horses—a number of them. Mounted men it must be—the hoofs are so regular. Cavalry!"
"It's the Prince coming back from Volseni!" cried Sophy.
"No, it's from the other direction; and, besides, there are too many for that."
Mounted men on the Slavna road—and too many to be the Prince's guard!
"What can it be?" asked Sophy in a low voice.
"I don't know. Zerkovitch's arrival must be connected with the same thing, I think."
"There! There are their shakoes coming over the rise of the hill!" cried Peter Vassip.
The next moment showed the company. They rode in fours, with sergeants on the flanks. The officer in command was behind—the three on the causeway could not see him yet. They were Hussars of the King's Guard, the best regiment in the army. The Prince of Slavna had made them good soldiers—they hated him for it. But Stafnitz was their colonel. On they came; in their blue tunics and silver braid they made a brave show in the sunshine.
The three watched now without word or motion. The sudden sight held them spellbound. Not one of them thought of sending to warn the Prince. If they had, the thought would have been useless, unless it had chimed in with Mistitch's will. Twenty men could have been on them before there was time to saddle a horse. If the expedition were a hostile one, the Castle was caught napping in very truth!
Sophy stood forward a pace in front of her companions; her hand rested on the little revolver which Monseigneur had given her.
On came the company; the foremost file reached within twenty yards of the causeway. There they halted. Half of them dismounted, each man as he did so intrusting his horse to his next fellow. Half of the fifty thus left mounted repeated this operation, leaving the remaining twenty-five in charge of all the horses. The seventy-five took position, four deep, on the road. They separated, lining either side.
The figure of their commander now appeared. He rode to the foot of the causeway, then dismounted, and gave his horse to the sergeant who attended him. His men followed and drew up in the road, blocking the approach to the Castle. Big Mistitch began to ascend the causeway, a broad smile on his face. It was a great moment for Captain Hercules—the day of revenge for which he had waited in forced patience and discreet unobtrusiveness. It was a critical day, also, in view of the instructions he had. To do him justice, he was not afraid.
Sophy saw and knew. This must have been the news that Zerkovitch carried, that he had galloped on to tell to the Prince at Volseni. Some event—some unknown and untoward turn of fortune—had loosed Mistitch on them! That was all she had time to realize before Mistitch saluted her and spoke.
"I have the honor of addressing the Baroness Dobrava?"
"You know me well, I think, Captain Mistitch, and I know you."
"Our journey together will be all the pleasanter for that."
"Your business with me, please?"
"I have it in command from his Majesty to escort you to Slavna—to the Palace and into his presence. The King himself will then acquaint you with his wishes."
"You're a strange messenger to send."
"That's a point to put to my superior officer, Colonel Stafnitz, who sent me, Baroness."
Sophy pointed at his men. "You ride strongly supported!"
"Again the Colonel's orders, Baroness. I confess the precautions seemed to me excessive. I had no doubt you would willingly obey his Majesty's commands. Here, by-the-way, is the written order." He produced the order the King had signed before his death.
Sophy had been thinking. Neither her courage nor her cunning forsook her. She waved the document away. "I can take your word, Captain? You're making no mistake to-day?—I really am Baroness Dobrava—not somebody else with whom you have a feud?" She laughed at him gayly and went on: "Well, I'm ready. I'm dressed for a ride—and I'll ride with you immediately. In two minutes we'll be off." She saw a groom in the road staring at the troopers, and called to him to bring her a horse.
This prompt obedience by no means suited Mistitch's book. It forced him either to show his hand or to ride off with Sophy, leaving the Prince to his devices—and, in a little while, to his revenge.
"I mustn't hurry you. You have some preparations—?"
"None," said Sophy. Her horse was led out into the road.
"You'll at least desire to acquaint his Royal Highness—?"
"Not at all necessary. Baron von Hollbrandt can do that later on."
Mistitch looked puzzled. Sophy smiled; her intuition had been right. The attack on her was a feint, her arrest a blind; the Prince was the real object of the move. She stepped down towards Mistitch.
"I see my horse is ready. We can start at once, Captain," she said.
"I'm instructed to express to the Prince regret that it should be necessary—"
"The regret will be conveyed to him. Come, Captain!"
But Mistitch barred her way.
"His Royal Highness is in the Castle?" he asked. His voice grew angry now; he feared the great stroke had failed; he saw that Sophy played with him. How would he and his escort look riding back to Slavna with nothing to show for their journey save the capture of one unresisting woman—a woman whom they dared not harm while the Prince remained free, and might become all-powerful?
"If he had been, you'd have known it by now, I think," smiled Sophy. "No, the Prince isn't at the Castle."
"I'll see that for myself!" Mistitch cried, taking a step forward.
With a low laugh Sophy drew aside, passed him, and ran down the causeway. In an instant she darted between the ranks of Mistitch's men and reached her horse. The groom mounted her. She looked up to Mistitch and called to him gayly:
"Now for Slavna, Captain! And hurry, or you'll be left behind!"
Her wit was too quick for him. Max von Hollbrandt burst out laughing; Peter Vassip grinned.
"What are you waiting for, Captain?" asked Max. "Your prisoner's only too anxious to go with you, you see!"
"I'll search the Castle first!" he cried in a rage which made him forget his part.
Peter Vassip sprang forward and barred the way. Mistitch raised his mighty arm. But Sophy's voice rang out gayly:
"Nonsense, Peter! There's nothing to conceal. Let the Captain pass!"
Her words stopped Mistitch—he feared a trap. Max saw it and mocked him. "Don't be afraid, Captain—take fifty men in with you. The garrison consists of a lady in bed, an old man, and five female servants."
Sophy heard and laughed. Even the troopers began to laugh now. Mistitch stood on the top of the causeway, irresolute, baffled, furious.
But behind his stupidity lay the cunning astuteness of Stafnitz, the ingenious bit of devilry. Mistitch's name availed where his brain could not. For the moment the Prince made little of the Crown which had become his; when he heard Zerkovitch's news, his overpowering thought was that the woman he loved might be exposed to the power and the insults of Mistitch. Sophy was playing a skilful game for him, but he did not know it.
"I hear something," said Peter Vassip again, whispering to Max von Hollbrandt.
Yes, there was the galloping of horses on the Volseni road!
Colonel Stafnitz had not miscalculated.
Now Mistitch heard the sound. His heavy face brightened. He ran down the causeway, loudly ordering his men to mount. He was no longer at a loss. He had his cue now—the cue Stafnitz had given him.