The King had died yesterday—yet none had told his heir! Mistitch had set out for Dobrava with fifty men to wait for the King—who was dead! The dead King would never go to Dobrava—and no messenger came to the new King at Praslok!
Zerkovitch's news was enough to raise the anger of a King—and Sergius blazed with it. But more potent still was his wrathful fear as he thought of Sophy at Praslok, in the power of Captain Hercules.
He had his guard of twenty mounted men with him. With these he at once set forth, bidding Lukovitch collect all the men he could and follow him as speedily as possible. If Mistitch had really gone to Dobrava, then he would find him there and have the truth out of him. But if, as the Prince hardly doubted, he was making for Praslok, there was time to intercept him, time to carry off Sophy and the other inmates of the Castle, send them back to safety within the walls of Volseni, and himself ride on to meet Mistitch with his mind at ease.
Relying on Zerkovitch's information, he assumed that the troopers had not started from Slavna till seven in the morning. They had started at six. He reckoned also on Zerkovitch's statement, that they were but fifty strong. They were a hundred. Yet, had he known the truth, he could not have used more haste—and he would not have waited for another man! He stayed to tell no man in Volseni the news about his father—except Lukovitch. But as his twenty rode out of the gate behind him, he turned his head to Zerkovitch, who trotted beside him—for Zerkovitch neither could nor would rest till the game was played—and said: "Tell them that the King is dead, and that I reign." Zerkovitch whispered the news to the man next him, and it ran along the line. A low, stern cheer, hardly more than a murmured assurance of loyalty and service, came from the lips of the men in sheepskins.
Mistitch saw them coming, and turned to his troop; he had time for a little speech—and Stafnitz had taught him what to say: "Men, you are servants of the King, and of the King only. Not even the Prince of Slavna can command you against the King's orders. The King's orders are that we take Baroness Dobrava to Slavna, no matter who resists. If need be, these orders stand even against the Prince."
Stafnitz's soldiers—the men he petted, the men who had felt the Prince's stern hand—were only too glad to hear it. To strike for the King and yet against the hated Prince—it was a luxury, a happy and unlooked-for harmonizing of their duty and their pleasure. Their answering cheer was loud and fierce.
It struck harsh on the ears of the advancing Prince. His face grew hard and strained as he heard the shouts and saw the solid body of men across his path, barring access to his own castle. And within a yard or two of their ranks, by the side of the road, sat the figure which he knew so well and so well loved.
Now Mistitch played his card—that move in the game which Sophy's cool submission to his demand had for the moment thwarted, but to which the Prince's headlong anger and fear now gave an opening—the opening which Stafnitz had from the first foreseen. It would need little to make the fiery Prince forget prudence when he was face to face with Mistitch. It was not a safe game for Mistitch personally—both Stafnitz and he knew that. But Captain Hercules was confident. He would not be caught twice by the Volseni trick of sword! The satisfaction of his revenge, and the unstinted rewards that his Colonel offered, made it worth his while to accept the risk, and rendered it grateful to his heart.
Sophy sat smiling. She would fain have averted the encounter, and had shaped her manœuvres to that end. It was not to be so, it seemed. Now, she did not doubt Monseigneur's success. But she wished that Zerkovitch had not reached Volseni so quickly, that the Prince had stayed behind his walls till his plans were ready; and that she was going a prisoner to Slavna to see the King, trusting to her face, her tongue, her courage, and the star of her own fortune. Never had her buoyant self-confidence run higher.
On the top of the causeway, Max von Hollbrandt looked to his revolver, Peter Vassip loosened his knife in its leather sheath. A window above the gate opened, and Marie Zerkovitch's frightened face looked out. The women-servants jostled old Vassip in the doorway. The grooms stood outside the stables. No one moved—only the Prince's little troop came on. When they were fifty yards away, Mistitch cried to his men: "Draw swords!" and himself pricked his horse with his spur and rode up to where Sophy was.
Mistitch drew his horse up parallel to Sophy's, head to tail, on her right side, between her and the approaching force. With the instinct of hatred she shrank away from him; it had all been foreseen and rehearsed in Stafnitz's mind! Mistitch cried loudly: "In the King's name, Baroness Dobrava!" He leaned from the saddle and caught her right wrist in his huge hand: he had the justification that, at his first attempt to touch her, Sophy's hand had flown to her little revolver and held it now. Mistitch crushed her wrist—the revolver fell to the ground. Sophy gave one cry of pain. Mistitch dropped her wrist and reached his arm about her waist. He was pulling her from her horse, while again he cried out: "In the King's name! On guard!"
It was a high jump from the top of the causeway, but two men took it side by side—Max von Hollbrandt, revolver in hand, Peter Vassip with knife unsheathed.
As they leaped, another shout rang out: "Long live King Sergius!"
The Prince rode his fastest, but faster still rode Zerkovitch. He outpaced the Prince and rode right in among Mistitch's men, crying loudly again and again, unceasingly: "The King is dead! The King is dead! The King is dead!"
Then came the Prince; he rode full at Mistitch. His men followed him, and dashed with a shock against the troopers of Mistitch's escort. As they rode, they cried: "Long live King Sergius!" They had unhorsed a dozen men and wounded four or five before they realized that they met with no resistance. Mistitch's men were paralyzed. The King was dead—they were to fight against the King! The magic of the name worked. They dropped the points of their swords. The Volsenians, hesitating to strike men who did not defend themselves, puzzled and in doubt, turned to their Bailiff—their King—for his orders.
As the Prince came up, Mistitch hurled Sophy from him; she fell from her horse, but fell on the soft, grassy road-side, and sprang up unhurt save for a cruel pain in her crushed wrist. She turned her eyes whither all eyes were turned now. The general battle was stayed, but not the single combat. For a moment none moved save the two who were now to engage.
The fight of the Street of the Fountain fell to be fought again. For when Peter Vassip was darting forward, knife in hand, with a spring like a mountain goat's, his master's voice called: "Mine, Peter, mine!" It was the old cry when they shot wild-boar in the woods about Dobrava, and it brought Peter Vassip to a stand. Max von Hollbrandt, too, lowered his pointed revolver. Who should stand between his quarry and the King, between Sophy's lover and the man who had so outraged her? Big Mistitch was the King's game, and the King's only, that day.
Mistitch's chance was gone, and he must have known it. Where was the sergeant who had undertaken to cover him? He had turned tail. Where was the enveloping rush of his men, which should have engulfed and paralyzed the enemy? Paralysis was on his men themselves; they believed Zerkovitch, and lacked appetite for the killing of a King. Where was his triumphant return to Slavna, his laurels, his rewards, his wonderful swaggerings at the Golden Lion? They were all gone. Even though he killed the King, there were two dozen men vowed to have his life. They must have it—but at what price? His savage valor set the figure high.
It was the old fight again, but not in the old manner. There was no delicate sword-play, no fluctuating fortunes in the fray. It was all stem and short. The King had not drawn his sword, Mistitch did not seek to draw his. Two shots rang out sharply—that was all. The King reeled in his saddle, but maintained his seat. Big Mistitch threw his hands above his head with a loud cry and fell with a mighty crash on the road, shot through the head. Peter Vassip ran to the King and helped him to dismount, while Max von Hollbrandt held his horse. Sophy hurried to where they laid him by the road-side.
"Disarm these fellows!" cried Zerkovitch.
But Mistitch's escort were in no mood to wait for this operation; nor to stay and suffer the anger of the King. With their leader's fall the last of heart was out of them. Wrenching themselves free from such of the Volsenians as sought to arrest their flight, they turned their horses' heads and fled, one and all, for Slavna. The King's men attempted no pursuit; they clustered round the spot where he lay.
"I'm hit," he said to Sophy, "but not badly, I think."
From the Castle door, down the causeway, came Marie Zerkovitch, weeping passionately, wringing her hands. The soldiers parted their close ranks to let her through. She came to the road-side where Sophy supported Monseigneur's head upon her knees. Sophy looked up and saw her. Marie did not speak. She stood there sobbing and wringing her hands over Sophy and the wounded King.
That afternoon—an hour after the first of the straggling rout of Mistitch's escort came in—King Alexis died suddenly! So ran the official notice, endorsed by Dr. Natcheff's high authority. The coterie were in up to their necks; they could not go back now; they must go through with it. Countess Ellenburg took to her knees; Stenovics and Stafnitz held long conversations. Every point of tactical importance in the city was occupied by troops. Slavna was silent, expectant, curious.
Markart awoke at five o'clock, heavy of head, dry in the mouth, sick and ill. He found himself no longer in the King's suite, but in one of the apartments which Stafnitz had occupied. He was all alone; the door stood open. He understood that he was no more a prisoner; he knew that the King was dead!
But who else was dead—and who alive—and who King in Slavna?
He forced himself to rise, and hurried through the corridors of the Palace. They were deserted; there was nobody to hinder him, nobody of whom to ask a question. He saw a decanter of brandy standing near the door of one room, and drank freely of it. Then he made his way into the garden. He saw men streaming over the bridge towards Slavna, and hastened after them as quickly as he could. His head was still in a maze; he remembered nothing after drinking the glass of wine which Lepage the valet had given him. But he was possessed by a strong excitement, and he followed obstinately in the wake of the throng which set from the Palace and the suburbs into Slavna.
The streets were quiet; soldiers occupied the corners of the ways; they looked curiously at Markart's pale face and disordered uniform. A dull roar came from the direction of St. Michael's Square, and thither Markart aimed his course. He found all one side of the Square full of a dense crowd, swaying, jostling, talking. On the other side troops were massed; in an open space in front of the troops, facing the crowd, was Colonel Stafnitz, and by his side a little boy on a white pony.
Markart was too far off to hear what Stafnitz said when he began to speak—nay, the cheers of the troops behind the Colonel came so sharp on his words as almost to drown them; and after a moment's hesitation (as it seemed to Markart), the crowd of people on the other side of the Square echoed back the acclamations of the soldiers.
All Countess Ellenburg's ambitions were at stake; for Stenovics and Stafnitz it was a matter of life itself now, so daringly had they raised their hands against King Sergius. Countess Ellenburg had indeed prayed—and now prayed all alone in a deserted Palace—but not one of the three had hesitated. At the head of a united army, in the name of a united people, Stafnitz had demanded the proclamation of young Alexis as King. For an hour Stenovics had made a show of demurring; then he bowed to the national will. That night young Alexis enjoyed more honor than he had asked of Lepage the valet—he was called not Prince, but Majesty. He was King in Slavna, and the first work to which they set his childish hand was the proclamation of a state of siege.
Slavna chose him willingly—or because it must at the bidding of the soldiers. But Volseni was of another mind. They would not have the German woman's son to reign over them. Into that faithful city the wounded King threw himself with all his friends.
The body of Mistitch lay all day and all night by the wayside. Next morning at dawn the King's grooms came back from Volseni and buried it under a clump of trees by the side of the lane running down to Lake Talti. Their curses were the only words spoken over the grave; and they flattened the earth level with the ground again, that none might know where the man rested who had lifted his hand against their master.
The King was carried to Volseni sore stricken; they did not know whether he would live or die. He had a dangerous wound in the lungs, and, to make matters worse, the surgical skill available in Volseni was very primitive.
But in that regard fortune brought aid, and brought also to Sophy a strange conjuncture of the new life with the old. The landlord of the inn sent word to Lukovitch that two foreign gentlemen had arrived at his house that afternoon, and that the passport of one of them described him as a surgeon; the landlord had told him how things stood, and he was anxious to render help.
It was Basil Williamson. Dunstanbury and he, accompanied by Henry Brown, Dunstanbury's servant, had reached Volseni that day on their return from a tour in the Crimea and round the shores of the Sea of Azof.
It was late at night, and quiet reigned in Volseni—the quiet not of security, but of ordered vigilance. A light burned in every house; men lined the time-worn walls and camped in the market-place; there were scouts out on the road as far as Praslok. No news came from outside, and no news yet from the room in the guard-house where the wounded King lay. The street on which the room looked was empty, save for one man, who walked patiently up and down, smoking a cigar. Dunstanbury waited for Basil Williamson, who was in attendance on the King and was to pronounce to Volseni whether he could live or must die.
Dunstanbury had been glad that Basil could be of use, but for the rest he had listened to the story which Zerkovitch told him with an amused, rather contemptuous indifference—with an Englishman's wonder why other countries cannot manage their affairs better, and something of a traveller's pleasure at coming in for a bit of such vivid, almost blazing "local color" in the course of his journey. But whether Alexis reigned, or Sergius, mattered nothing to him, and, in his opinion, very little to anybody else.
Nor had he given much thought to the lady whose name figured so prominently in Zerkovitch's narrative, the Baroness Dobrava. Such a personage seemed no less appropriate to the surroundings than the rest of the story—no less appropriate and certainly not a whit more important. Of course he hoped Basil would make a good report, but his mind was not disturbed; his chief hope was that the claims of humanity would not prolong his stay in Volseni beyond a few days. It was a picturesque little place, but not one for a long visit; and in any case he was homeward bound now, rather eager for the pleasures of the London season after his winter journey—the third he had made in the interests of a book on Russia which he had in contemplation, a book designed to recommend him as an expert student of foreign affairs. He could hardly consider that these goings-on in Kravonia came within the purview of a serious study of his subject. But it was a pleasant, moonlit night, the old street was very quaint, the crisis he had happened on bizarre and amusing. He smoked his cigar and waited for Basil without impatience.
He had strolled a hundred yards away and just turned to loiter back, when he saw a figure come out of the guard-house, pause for a moment, and then advance slowly towards him. The sheepskin cap and tunic made him think at first that the stranger was one of the Volsenian levy; the next moment he saw the skirt. At once he guessed that he was in the presence of Baroness Dobrava, the heroine of the piece, as he had called her in his own mind and with a smile.
Evidently she meant to speak to him; he threw away his cigar and walked to meet her. As they drew near to each other he raised his hat. Sophy bowed gravely. Thus they met for the first time since Sophy washed her lettuces in the scullery at Morpingham, and, at the young lord's bidding, fetched Lorenzo the Magnificent a bone. This meeting was, however remotely, the result of that. Dunstanbury had started her career on the road which had led her to where she was.
"I've seen Mr. Williamson," she said, "and he knows me now. But you don't yet, do you, Lord Dunstanbury? And anyhow, perhaps, you wouldn't remember."
She had been a slip of a girl when he saw her last, in a print frock, washing lettuces. With a smile and a deprecatory gesture he confessed his ignorance and his surprise. "Really, I'm afraid I—I don't. I've been such a traveller, and meet so many—" An acquaintance with Baroness Dobrava was among the last with which he would have credited himself—or perhaps (to speak his true thoughts), charged his reputation.
"Mr. Williamson knew me almost directly—the moment I reminded him of my mark." She touched her cheek. Dunstanbury looked more closely at her, a vague recollection stirring in him. Sophy's face was very sad, yet she smiled just a little as she added: "I remember you so well—and your dog Lorenzo. I'm Sophy Grouch of Morpingham, and I became Lady Meg's companion. Now do you remember?"
He stepped quickly up to her, peered into her eyes, and saw the Red Star.
"Good Heavens!" he said, smiling at her in an almost helpless way. "Well, that is curious!" he added. "Sophy Grouch! And you are—Baroness Dobrava?"
"There's nothing much in that," said Sophy. "I'll tell you all about that soon, if we have time. To-night I can think of nothing but Monseigneur. Mr. Williamson has extracted the bullet, but I'm afraid he's very bad. You won't take Mr. Williamson away until—until it's settled—one way or the other, will you?"
"Neither Basil nor I will leave so long as we can be of the least service to you," he told her.
With a sudden impulse she put her hands in his. "It's strangely good to find you here to-night—so strange and so good! It gives me strength, and I want strength. Oh, my friends are brave men, but you—well, there's something in home and the same blood, I suppose."
Dunstanbury thought that there was certainly something in having two Englishmen about, instead of Kravonians only, but such a blunt sentiment might not be acceptable. He pressed her hands as he released them.
"I rejoice at the chance that brings us here. You can have every confidence in Basil. He's a first-rate man. But tell me about yourself. We have time now, haven't we?"
"Really, I suppose we have! Monseigneur has been put to sleep. But I couldn't sleep. Come, we'll go up on the wall."
They mounted on to the city wall, just by the gate, and leaned against the mouldering parapets. Below lay Lake Talti in the moonlight, and beyond it the masses of the mountains. Yet while Sophy talked, Dunstanbury's eyes seldom left her face; nay, once or twice he caught himself not listening, but only looking, tracing how she had grown from Sophy Grouch in her scullery to this. He had never forgotten the strange girl: once or twice he and Basil had talked of her; he had resented Lady Meg's brusque and unceremonious dismissal of her protégée; in his memory, half-overgrown, had lain the mark on Sophy's cheek. Now here she was, in Kravonia, of all places—Baroness Dobrava, of all people! And what else, who knew? The train of events which had brought this about was strange; yet his greater wonder was for the woman herself.
"And here we are!" she ended with a woful smile. "If Monseigneur lives, I think we shall win. For the moment we can do no more than hold Volseni; I think we can do that. But presently, when he's better and can lead us, we shall attack. Down in Slavna they won't like being ruled by the Countess and Stenovics as much as they expect. Little by little we shall grow stronger." Her voice rose a little. "At last Monseigneur will sit firm on his throne," she said. "Then we'll see what we can do for Kravonia. It's a fine country, and rich, Lord Dunstanbury, and outside Slavna the people are good material. We shall be able to make it very different—if Monseigneur lives."
"And if not?" he asked, in a low voice.
"What is it to me except for Monseigneur? If he dies—!" Her hands thrown wide in a gesture of despair ended her sentence.
If she lived and worked for Kravonia, it was for Monseigneur's sake. Without him, what was Kravonia to her? Such was her mood; plainly she took no pains to conceal it from Dunstanbury. The next moment she turned to him with a smile. "You think I talk strangely, saying: 'We'll do this and that'? Yes, you must, and it's suddenly become strange to me to say it—to say it to you, because you've brought back the old things to my mind, and all this is so out of keeping with the old things—with Sophy Grouch, and Julia Robins, and Morpingham! But until you came it didn't seem strange. Everything that has happened since I came to this country seemed to lead up to it—to bring it about naturally and irresistibly. I forgot till just now how funny it must sound to you—and how—how bad, I suppose. Well, you must accustom yourself to Kravonia. It's not Essex, you know."
"If the King lives?" he asked.
"I shall be with Monseigneur if he lives," she answered.
Yes, it was very strange; yet already, even now—when he had known her again for half an hour, had seen her and talked to her—gradually and insidiously it began to seem less strange, less fantastic, more natural. Dunstanbury had to give himself a mental shake to get back to Essex and to Sophy Grouch. Volseni set old and gray amid the hills, the King whose breath struggled with his blood for life, the beautiful woman who would be with the King if and so long as he lived—these were the present realities he saw in vivid immediate vision; they made the shadows of the past seem not indeed dim—they kept all their distinctness of outline in memory—but in their turn fantastic, and in no relation to the actual. Was that the air of Kravonia working on him? Or was it a woman's voice, the pallid pride of a woman's face?
"In Slavna they call me a witch," she said, "and tell terrible tales about this little mark—my Red Star. But here in Volseni they like me—yes, and I can win over Slavna, too, if I get the opportunity. No, I sha'n't be a weakness to Monseigneur if he lives."
"You'll be—?"
"His wife?" she interrupted. "Yes." She smiled again—nay, almost laughed. "That seems worst of all—worse than anything else?"
Dunstanbury allowed himself to smile too. "Well, yes, of course that's true," he said. "Out of Kravonia, anyhow. What's true in Kravonia I really don't know yet."
"I suppose it's true in Kravonia too. But what I tell you is Monseigneur's will about me."
He looked hard at her. "You love him?" he asked.
"As my life, and more," said Sophy, simply.
At last Dunstanbury ceased to look at her; he laid his elbows on the battlements and stood there, his eyes roaming over the lake in the valley to the mountains beyond. Sophy left his side, and began to walk slowly up and down the rugged, uneven, overgrown surface of the walls.
The moon was sinking in the sky; there would be three or four dark hours before the dawn. A man galloped up to the gate and gave a countersign in return to a challenge; the heavy gates rolled open; he rode in; another rode out and cantered off along the road towards Praslok. There was watch and ward—Volseni was not to be caught napping as Praslok had been. Whether the King lived or died, his Volsenians were on guard. Dunstanbury turned his back on the hills and came up to Sophy.
"We Essex folk ought to stand by one another," he said. "It's the merest chance that has brought me here, but I'm glad of the chance now. And it's beginning to feel not the least strange. So long as you've need of help, count me among your soldiers."
"But you oughtn't to mix yourself up—"
"Did you act on that principle when you came to Kravonia?"
With a smile Sophy gave him her hand. "So be it. I accept your service—for Monseigneur."
"I give it to you," he persisted.
"Yes—and all that is mine I give to Monseigneur," said Sophy.
Any man who meets, or after an interval of time meets again, an attractive woman, only to find that her thoughts are pre-empted and totally preoccupied, suffers an annoyance not the less real because he sees the absurdity of it; it is to find shut a gate which with better luck might have been open. The unusual circumstances of his new encounter with Sophy did not save Dunstanbury from this common form of chagrin; the tragic element in her situation gave it a rather uncommon flavor. He would fain have appeared as the knight-errant to rescue such beauty in such distress; but the nature of the distress did not seem favorable to the proper romantic sequel.
He made his offer of service to her; she assigned him to the service of Monseigneur! He laughed at his own annoyance—and determined to serve Monseigneur as well as he could. At the same time, while conceding most amply—nay, even feeling—Monseigneur's excuse, he could not admire his policy in the choice of a bride. That was doubtless a sample of how things were done in Kravonia! He lived to feel the excuse more strongly—and to pronounce the judgment with greater hesitation.
Sophy had given him her hand again as she accepted his offer in Monseigneur's name.—He had not yet released it when she was called from the street below in a woman's voice—a voice full of haste and alarm.
"Marie Zerkovitch calls me! I must go at once," she said. "I expect Monseigneur is awake." She hurried off with a nod of farewell.
Dunstanbury stayed a little while on the wall, smoking a cigarette, and then went down into the street. The door of the guard-house was shut; all was very quiet as he passed along to the market-place where the inn was situated. He went up to his room overlooking the street, and, taking off his coat only, flung himself on the bed. He was minded thus to await Basil Williamson's return with news of the King. But the excitement of the day had wearied him; in ten minutes he was sound asleep.
He was aroused by Basil Williamson's hand on his shoulder. The young doctor, a slim-built, dark, wiry fellow, looked very weary and sad.
"How has it gone?" asked Dunstanbury, sitting up.
"It's been a terrible night. I'm glad you've had some sleep. He awoke after an hour; the hemorrhage had set in again. I had to tell him it was a thousand to one against him. He sent for her, and made me leave them alone together. There was only one other room, and I waited there with a little woman—a Madame Zerkovitch—who cried terribly. Then he sent for Lukovitch, who seems to be the chief man in the place. Presently Lukovitch went away, and I went back to the King. I found him terribly exhausted; she was there, sitting by him and whispering to him now and then; she seemed calm. Presently Lukovitch came back; the Zerkovitches and the German man came too. They all came in—the King would not hear my objections—and with them came a priest. And then and there the King married her! She spoke to nobody except to me before the service began, and then she only said: 'Monseigneur wishes it.' I waited till the service was done, but I could bear no more. I went outside while they shrived him. But I was called back hurriedly. Then the end came very soon—in less than half an hour. He sent everybody away except her and me, and when I had done all that was possible, I went as far off as I could—into the corner of the room. I came back at a call from her just before he died. The man was looking extraordinarily happy, Dunstanbury."
"They were married?"
"Oh yes. It's all right, I suppose—not that it seems to matter much now, does it? Put on your coat and come to the window. You'll see a sight you'll remember, I think."
Together they went to the window. The sun had risen from behind the mountains and flooded the city with light; the morning air was crisp and fragrant. The market-place was thronged with people—men in line in front, women, girls, and boys in a mass behind. They were all absolutely quiet and silent. Opposite where they were was a raised platform of wood, reached by steps from the ground; it was a rostrum for the use of those who sold goods by auction in the market. A board on trestles had been laid on this, and on the board was stretched the body of the King. At his feet stood Lukovitch; behind were Max von Hollbrandt, Zerkovitch, and Marie. At the King's head stood Sophy, and Peter Vassip knelt on the ground beside her. She stood like a statue, white and still; but Dunstanbury could see the Red Star glowing.
Lukovitch seemed to have been speaking, although the sound of his voice had not reached them through the closed window of the topmost room in the inn. He spoke again now—not loudly, but in a very clear voice.
"The King lies dead through treachery," he said. "In Slavna the German woman rules, and her son, and the men who killed the King. Will you have them to rule over you, men of Volseni?"
A shout of "No!" rang out, followed again by absolute silence. Lukovitch drew the curved sword that he wore and raised it in the air. All the armed men followed his example; the rest, with the women and young people, raised their right hands. It was their custom in calling Heaven to witness.
"God hears us!" said Lukovitch, and all the people repeated the words after him.
Dunstanbury whispered to Basil: "Do they mean to fight?" An eagerness stirred in his voice.
"Listen! He's speaking again."
"Whom then will you have for your King, men of Volseni?" asked Lukovitch. "There is one on whose finger the King has put the silver ring of the Bailiffs of Volseni. With his own hand he set it there before he died—he set it there when he made her his Queen, as you have heard. Will you have the Bailiff of Volseni for your King?"
A great shout of "Yes!" answered him.
"You will have Sophia for your King?"
"Sophia for our King!" they cried.
Lukovitch raised his sword again; all raised swords or hands. The solemn words "God hears us!" were spoken from every mouth. Lukovitch turned to Sophy and handed his drawn sword to her. She took it. Then she knelt down and kissed the King's lips. Rising to her feet again, she stood for a moment silent, looking over the thronged market-square; yet she seemed hardly to see; her eyes were vacant. At last she raised the sword to her lips, kissed it, and then held it high in the air.
"It was Monseigneur's wish. Let us avenge him! God hears me!"
"God hears you!" came all the voices.
The ceremony was finished. Six men took up the board on which the King lay, carried it down from the rostrum, and along the street to the guard-house. Sophy followed, and her friends walked after her. Still she seemed as though in a dream; her voice had sounded absent, almost unconscious. She was pale as death, save for the Red Star.
Following her dead, she passed out of sight. Immediately the crowd began to disperse, though most of the men with arms gathered round Lukovitch and seemed to await his orders.
Basil Williamson moved away from the window with a heavy sigh and a gesture of dejection.
"I wish we could get her safe out of it," he said. "Isn't it wonderful, her being here?"
"Yes—but I'd forgotten that." Dunstanbury was still by the window; he had been thinking that his service now would not be to Monseigneur. Yet no doubt Basil had mentioned the wisest form of service. Sophy's own few words—the words for which she cited Heaven's witness—hinted at another.
But Basil had recalled his mind to the marvel. Moved as he had been by his talk with Sophy, and even more by the scene which had just been enacted before his eyes, his face lit up with a smile as he looked across to Basil.
"Yes, old fellow, wonderful! Sophy Grouch! Queen of Kravonia! It beats Macbeth hollow!"
"It's pretty nearly as dreary!" said Basil, with a discontented grunt.
"I find it pretty nearly as exciting," Dunstanbury said. "And I hope for a happier ending. Meanwhile"—he buckled the leather belt which held his revolver round his waist—"I'm for some breakfast, and then I shall go and ask that tall fellow who did all the talking if there's anything I can do for King Sophia. By Jove! wouldn't Cousin Meg open her eyes?"
"You'll end by getting yourself stuck up against the wall and shot," Basil grumbled.
"If I do, I'm quite sure of one thing, old fellow—and that is that your wooden old mug will be next in the line, or thereabouts."
"I say, Dunstanbury, I wish I could have saved him!"
"So do I. Did you notice her face?"
Williamson gave a scornful toss of his head.
"Well, yes, I was an ass to ask that!" Dunstanbury admitted, candidly. It would certainly not have been easy to avoid noticing Sophy's face.
At six o'clock that morning Max von Hollbrandt took horse for Slavna. His diplomatic character at once made it proper for him to rejoin his Legation and enabled him to act as a messenger with safety to himself. He carried the tidings of the death of the King and of the proclamation—of Sophy. There was no concealment. Volseni's defiance to Slavna was open and avowed. Volseni held that there was no true Stefanovitch left, and cited the will of the last of the Royal House as warrant for its choice. The gauntlet was thrown down with a royal air.
It was well for Max to get back to his post. The diplomatists in Slavna, and their chiefs at home, were soon to be busy with the affairs of Kravonia. Mistitch had struck at the life of even more than his King—that was to become evident before many days had passed.
It is permissible to turn with some relief—although of a kind more congenial to the cynic than to an admirer of humanity—from the tragedy of love in Volseni to the comedy of politics which began to develop itself in Slavna from the hour of the proclamation of young Alexis.
The first result of this auspicious event, following so closely on the issue of Captain Mistitch's expedition, was to give all the diplomatists bad colds. Some took to their beds, others went for a change of air; but one and all had such colds as would certainly prevent them from accepting royal invitations or being present at State functions. Young Alexis had a cold, too, and was consequently unable to issue royal invitations or take his part in State functions. Countess Ellenburg was even more affected—she had lumbago; and even General Stenovics was advised to keep quite quiet for a few days.
Only Colonel Stafnitz's health seemed proof against the prevailing epidemic. He was constantly to be seen about, very busy at the barracks, very busy at Suleiman's Tower, very gay and cheerful on the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris. But then he, of course, had been in no way responsible for recent events. He was a soldier, and had only obeyed orders; naturally his health was less affected. He was, in fact, in very good spirits, and in very good temper except when he touched on poor Captain Hercules's blundering, violent ways. "Not the man for a delicate mission," he said, decisively, to Captain Markart. The Captain forbore to remind him how it was that Mistitch had been sent on one. The way in which the Colonel expressed his opinion made it clear that such a reminder would not be welcome.
The coterie which had engineered the revolution was set at sixes and sevens by its success. The destruction of their common enemy was also the removal of their common interest. Sophy at Volseni did not seem a peril real enough or near enough to bind them together. Countess Ellenburg wanted to be Regent; Stenovics was for a Council, with himself in the chair. Stafnitz thought himself the obvious man to be Commandant of Slavna; Stenovics would have agreed—only it was necessary to keep an eye on Volseni! Now if he were to be Commandant, while the Colonel took the field with a small but picked force! The Colonel screwed up his mouth at that. "Make Praslok your headquarters, and you'll soon bring the Sheepskins to their senses," Stenovics advised insidiously. Stafnitz preferred headquarters in Suleiman's Tower! He was not sure that coming back from Praslok with a small force, however picked, would be quite as easy as going there.
In the back of both men's minds there was a bit of news which had just come to hand. The big guns had been delivered, and were on their way to Slavna, coming down the Krath in barges. They were consigned to the Commandant. Who was that important officer now to be?
When thieves fall out, honest men come by their own. The venerable saying involves one postulate—that there shall be honest men to do it. In high places in Slavna this seemed to be a difficulty, and it is not so certain that Kravonia's two great neighbors, to east and west, quite filled the gap. These Powers were exchanging views now. They were mightily shocked at the way Kravonia had been going on. Their Ministers had worse colds than any of the other Ministers, and their Press had a great deal to say about civilization and such like topics. Kravonia was a rich country, and its geographical position was important. The history of the world seems to show that the standard of civilization and morality demanded of a country depends largely on its richness and the importance of its geographical position.
The neighbor on the west had plenty of mountains, but wanted some fertile plains. The neighbor on the east had fertile plains adjacent to the Kravonian frontier, and would like to hold the mountain line as a protection to them. A far-seeing statesman would have discerned how important correct behavior was to the interests of Kravonia! The great neighbors began to move in the matter, but they moved slowly. They had to see that their own keen sense of morality was not opposed to the keen sense of morality of other great nations. The right to feel specially outraged is a matter for diplomatic negotiations, often, no doubt, of great delicacy.
So in the mean time Slavna was left to its own devices for a little longer—to amuse itself in its light-hearted, unremorseful, extremely unconscientious way, and to frown and shake a distant fist at grim, gray, sad little Volseni in the hills. With the stern and faithful band who mourned the dead Prince neither Stenovics nor Stafnitz seemed for the moment inclined to try conclusions, though each would have been very glad to see the other undertake the enterprise. In a military regard, moreover, they were right. The obvious thing, if Sophy still held out, was to wait for the big guns. When once these were in position, the old battlements of Volseni could stand scarcely longer than the walls of Jericho. And the guns were at the head of navigation on the Krath now, waiting for an escort to convoy them to Slavna. Max von Hollbrandt—too insignificant a person to feel called upon to have a cold—moved about Slavna, much amused with the situation, and highly gratified that the fruit which the coterie had plucked looked like turning bitter in their mouths.
Within the Palace on the river-bank young Alexis was strutting his brief hour, vastly pleased; but Countess Ellenburg was at her prayers again, praying rather indiscriminately against everybody who might be dangerous—against Sophy at Volseni; against the big neighbors, whose designs began to be whispered; against Stenovics, who was fighting so hard for himself that he gave little heed to her or to her dignity; against Stafnitz, who might leave her the dignity, such as it was, but certainly, if he established his own supremacy, would not leave her a shred of power. Perhaps there were spectres also against whose accusing shades she raised her petition—the man she had deluded, the man she had helped to kill; but that theme seems too dark for the comedy of Slavna in these days. The most practical step she took, so far as this world goes, was to send a very solid sum of money to a bank in Dresden: it was not the first remittance she had made from Slavna.
Matters stood thus—young Alexis having been on the throne in Slavna, and Sophy in Volseni, for one week—when Lepage ventured out from Zerkovitch's sheltering roof. He had suffered from a chill by no means purely diplomatic; but, apart from that, he had been in no hurry to show himself; he feared to see Rastatz's rat-face peering for him. But all was quiet. Sterkoff and Rastatz were busy with their Colonel in Suleiman's Tower. In fact, nobody took any notice of Lepage; his secret, once so vital, was now gossip of the market-place. He was secure—but he was also out of a situation.
He walked somewhat forlornly into St. Michael's Square, and as luck would have it—Lepage thought it very bad luck—the first man he ran against was Captain Markart. Uneasy in his conscience, Lepage tried to evade the encounter, but the Captain was of another mind. His head was sound again, and, on cool reflection, he was glad to have slept through the events of what Stenovics's proclamation had styled "the auspicious day." He seized little Lepage by the arm, greeted him with cordiality, and carried him off to drink at the Golden Lion. Without imputing any serious lack of sobriety to his companion, Lepage thought that this refreshment was not the first of which the good-humored Captain had partaken that forenoon; his manner was so very cordial, his talk so very free.
"Well, here we are!" he said. "We did our best, you and I, Lepage; our consciences are clear. As loyal subjects, we have now to accept the existing régime."
"What is it?" asked Lepage. "I've been in-doors a week."
"It's Alexis—still Alexis! Long live Alexis!" said Markart, with a laugh. "You surely don't take Baroness Dobrava into account?"
"I just wanted to know," said Lepage, drinking thoughtfully. "And—er—Captain—behind Alexis? Guiding the youthful King? Countess Ellenburg?"
"No doubt, no doubt. Behind him his very pious mother, Lepage."
"And behind her?" persisted Lepage.
Markart laughed, but cast a glance round and shook his head.
"Come, come, Captain, don't leave an old friend in the dark—just where information would be useful!"
"An old friend! Oh, when I remember my aching head! You think me very forgiving, Monsieur Lepage."
"If you knew the night I spent, you'd forgive me anything," said Lepage, with a shudder of reminiscence.
"Ah, well," said Markart, after another draught, "I'm a soldier—I shall obey my orders."
"Perfect, Captain! And who will give them to you, do you think?"
"That's exactly what I'm waiting to see. Oh, I've turned prudent! No more adventures for me!"
"I'm quite of your mind; but it's so difficult to be prudent when one doesn't know which is the strongest side."
"You wouldn't go to Volseni?" laughed Markart.
"Perhaps not; but there are difficulties nearer home. If you went out of this door and turned to the left, you would come to the offices of the Council of Ministers. If you turned to the right, and thence to the right again, and on to the north wall, you would come, Captain, to Suleiman's Tower. Now, as I understand, Colonel Stafnitz—"
"Is at the Tower, and the General at the offices, eh?"
"Precisely. Which turn do you mean to take?"
Markart looked round again. "I shall sit here for a bit longer," he said. He finished his liquor, thereby, perhaps, adding just the touch of openness lacking to his advice, and, leaning forward, touched Lepage on the arm.
"Do you remember the Prince's guns—the guns for which he bartered Captain Hercules?"
"Ay, well!" said Lepage.
"They're on the river, up at Kolskoï, now. I should keep my eye on them! They're to be brought to Slavna. Who do you think'll bring them? Keep your eye on that!"
"They're both scoundrels," said Lepage, rising to go.
Markart shrugged his shoulders. "The fruit lies on the ground for the man who can pick it up! Why not? There's nobody who's got any right to it now."
He expressed exactly the view of the two great neighbors, though by no means in the language which their official communications adopted.
Stenovics knew their views very well. He had also received a pretty plain intimation from Stafnitz that the Colonel considered the escorting of the guns to Slavna as a purely military task, appertaining not to the Ministry of State, but to the officer commanding the garrison in the capital. Stafnitz was that officer, and he proposed himself to go to Kolskoï. Suleiman's Tower, he added, would be left in the trustworthy hands of Captain Sterkoff. Again Stenovics fully understood; indeed, the Colonel was almost brutally candid. His letter was nothing less than plain word that power lay with the sword, and that the sword was in his own hand. Stenovics had got rid of King Sergius only to fall under the rule of Dictator Stafnitz! Was that to be the end of it?
Stenovics preferred any other issue. The ideal thing was his own rule in the name of young Alexis, with such diplomatic honoring and humoring of Countess Ellenburg as might prove necessary. That was plainly impossible so long as Stafnitz was master of the army; it would become finally hopeless if Sterkoff held Suleiman's Tower till Stafnitz brought the guns to Slavna. What, then, was Stenovics's alternative? For he was not yet brought to giving up the game as totally lost. His name stood high, though his real power tottered on a most insecure foundation. He could get good terms for his assistance: there was time to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness.
Privately, as became invalids, without the knowledge of any one outside their confidentialentourage, the representatives of the two great neighbors received General Stenovics. They are believed to have convinced him that, in the event of any further disorders in Kravonia, intervention could not be avoided; troops were on either frontier, ready for such an emergency; a joint occupation would be forced on the Allies. With a great deal of sorrow, no doubt, the General felt himself driven to accept this conclusion.
He at once requested Stafnitz to fetch the guns to Slavna; he left the Colonel full discretion in the matter. His only desire was to insure the tranquillity of the capital, and to show Volseni how hopeless it was to maintain the fanciful and absurd claims of Baroness Dobrava. The representatives, it must be supposed, approved this attitude, and wished the General all success; at a later date his efforts to secure order, and to avoid the inevitable but regrettable result of any new disturbance, were handsomely acknowledged by both Powers. General Stenovics had not Stafnitz's nerve and dash, but he was a man of considerable resource.
A man of good feeling, too, to judge from another step he took—whether with the cognizance of the representatives or entirely of his own motion has never become known. He waited till Colonel Stafnitz, who returned a civil and almost effusive reply to his communication, had set off to fetch the guns—which, as has been seen, had been unloaded from the railway and lay at Kolskoï, three days' journey up the Krath; then he entered into communication with Volseni. He sent Volseni a private and friendly warning. What was the use of Volseni holding out when the big guns were coming? It could mean only hopeless resistance, more disorder, more blood-shed. Let Volseni and the lady whose claims it supported consider that, be warned in time, and acknowledge King Alexis!
This letter he addressed to Zerkovitch. There were insuperable diplomatic difficulties in the way of addressing it to Sophy directly. "Madam I may not call you, and Mistress I am loath to call you," said Queen Elizabeth to the Archbishop's wife: it was just a case of that sort of difficulty. He could not call her Queen of Kravonia, and she would be offended if he called her Baroness Dobrava. So the letter went to Zerkovitch, and it went by the hand of one of Zerkovitch's friends—so anxious was the General to be as friendly and conciliatory as circumstances permitted.
Much to his surprise, considerably to his alarm, Lepage was sent for to the General's private residence on the evening of the day on which Colonel Stafnitz set out for Kolskoï to fetch the guns.
Stenovics greeted him cordially, smoothed away his apprehension, acquainted him with the nature of his mission and with the gist of the letter which he was to carry. Stenovics seemed more placid to-night than for some time back—possibly because he had got Stafnitz quietly out of Slavna.
"Beg Monsieur Zerkovitch to give the letter to Baroness Dobrava (he called her that to Lepage) as soon as possible, and to urge her to listen to it. Add that we shall be ready to treat her with every consideration—any title in reason, and any provision in reason, too. It's all in my letter, but repeat it on my behalf, Lepage."
"I shouldn't think she'd take either title or money, General," said Lepage, bluntly.
"You think she's disinterested? No doubt, no doubt! She'll be the more ready to see the uselessness of prolonging her present attitude." He grew almost vehement, as he laid his hand on a large map which was spread out on the table in front of him. "Look here, Lepage. This is Monday. By Wednesday evening Colonel Stafnitz will be at Kolskoï—here!" He put his finger by the spot. "On Thursday morning he'll start back. The barges travel well, and—yes—I think he'll have his guns here by Sunday; less than a week from now! Yes, on Thursday night he ought to reach Evena, on Friday Rapska, on Saturday the lock at Miklevni. Yes, on Saturday the lock at Miklevni! That would bring him here on Sunday. Yes, the lock at Miklevni on Saturday, I think." He looked up at Lepage almost imploringly. "If she hesitates, show her that. They're bound to be here in less than a week!"
Lepage cocked his head on one side and looked at the Minister thoughtfully. It all sounded very convincing. Colonel Stafnitz would be at the lock at Miklevni on Saturday, and on Sunday with the guns at Slavna. And, of course, arduous though the transport would be, they could be before Volseni in two or three days more. It was really no use resisting!
Stenovics passed a purse over to Lepage. "For your necessary expenses," he said. Lepage took up the purse, which felt well filled, and pocketed it. "The Baroness mayn't fully appreciate what I've been saying," added Stenovics. "But Lukovitch knows every inch of the river—he'll make it quite plain, if she asks him about it. And present her with my sincere respects and sympathy—my sympathy with her as a private person, of course. You mustn't commit me in any way, Lepage."
"I think," said Lepage, "that you're capable of looking after that department yourself, General. But aren't you making the Colonel go a little too fast?"
"No, no; the barges will do about that."
"But he has a large force to move, I suppose?"
"Oh, dear, no! A large force? No, no! Only a company—just about a hundred strong, Lepage." He rose. "Just about a hundred, I think."
"Ah, then he might keep time!" Lepage agreed, still very thoughtfully.
"You'll start at once?" the General asked.
"Within an hour."
"That's right. We must run no unnecessary risks; delay might mean new troubles."
He held out his hand and shook Lepage's warmly. "You must believe that I respect and share your grief at the King's death."
"Which King, General?"
"Oh! oh! King Alexis, of course! We must listen to the voice of the nation. Our new King lives and reigns. The voice of the nation, Lepage!"
"Ah!" said Lepage, dryly. "I'd been suspecting some ventriloquists!"
General Stenovics honored the sally with a broad smile. He thought the representatives with colds would be amused if he repeated it. The pat on the shoulder which he gave Lepage was a congratulation. "The animal is so very inarticulate of itself," he said.
Though not remote in distance, yet Volseni was apart and isolated from all that was happening. Not only was nothing known of the two great neighbors—nothing reached men in Volseni of the state of affairs in Slavna itself. They did not know that the thieves were quarrelling about the plunder, nor that the diplomatists had taken cold; they had not bethought them of how the art of the ventriloquists would be at work. They knew only that young Alexis reigned in Slavna by reason of their King's murder and against the will of him who was dead; only that they had chosen Sophia for their Queen because she had been the dead King's wife and his chosen successor.
All the men who could be spared from labor came into the city; they collected what few horses they could; they filled their little fortress with provisions. They could not go to Slavna, but they awaited with confidence the day when Slavna should dare to move against them into the hills. Slavna had never been able to beat them in their own hills yet; the bolder spirits even implored Lukovitch to lead them down in a raid on the plains.
Lukovitch would sanction no more than a scouting party, to see whether any movement were in progress from the other side. Peter Vassip rode down with his men to within a few miles of Slavna. For result of the expedition he brought back the news of the guns: the great guns, rumor said, had reached Kravonia and were to be in Slavna in a week.
The rank and file hardly understood what that meant; anger that their destined and darling guns should fall into hostile hands was the feeling uppermost. But the tidings struck their leaders home to the heart. Lukovitch knew what it meant. Dunstanbury, who had served three years in the army at home, knew very well. Covered by such a force as Stafnitz could bring up, the guns could pound Volseni to pieces—and Volseni could strike back not a single blow.
"And it's all through her that the guns are here at all!" said Zerkovitch, with a sigh for the irony of it.
Dunstanbury laid his hand on Lukovitch's shoulder. "It's no use," he said. "We must tell her so, and we must make the men understand. She can't let them have their homes battered to pieces—the town with the women and children in it—and all for nothing!"
"We can't desert her," Lukovitch protested.
"No; we must get her safely away, and then submit."
Since Dunstanbury had offered his services to Sophy, he had assumed a leading part. His military training and his knowledge of the world gave him an influence over the rude, simple men. Lukovitch looked to him for guidance; he had much to say in the primitive preparations for defence. But now he declared defence to be impossible.
"Who'll tell her so?" asked Basil Williamson.
"We must get her across the frontier," said Dunstanbury. "There—by St. Peter's Pass—the way we came, Basil. It's an easy journey, and I don't suppose they'll try to intercept us. You can send twenty or thirty well-mounted men with us, can't you, Lukovitch? A small party well mounted is what we shall want."
Lukovitch waved his hands sadly. "With the guns against us it would be a mere massacre! If it must be, let it be as you say, my lord." His heart was very heavy; after generations of defiance, Volseni must bow to Slavna, and his dead Lord's will go for nothing! All this was the doing of the great guns.
Dunstanbury's argument was sound, but he argued from his heart as well as his head. He was convinced that the best service he could render to Sophy was to get her safely out of the country; his heart urged that her safety was the one and only thing to consider. As she went to and fro among them now, pale and silent, yet always accessible, always ready to listen, to consider, and to answer, she moved him with an infinite pity and a growing attraction. Her life was as though dead or frozen; it seemed to him as though all Kravonia must be to her the tomb of him whose grave in the little hill-side church of Volseni she visited so often. An ardent and overpowering desire rose in him to rescue her, to drag her forth from these dim cold shades into the sunlight of life again. Then the spell of this frozen grief might be broken; then should her drooping glories revive and bloom again. Kravonia and who ruled there—ay, in his heart, even the fate of the gallant little city which harbored them, and whose interest he pleaded—were nothing to him beside Sophy. On her his thoughts were centred.
Sophy's own mind in these days can be gathered only from what others saw. She made no record of it. Fallen in an hour from heights of love and hope and exaltation, she lay stunned in the abyss. In intellect calm and collected, she seems to have been as one numbed in feeling, too maimed for pain, suffering as though from a mortification of the heart. The simple men and women of Volseni looked on her with awe, and chattered fearfully of the Red Star: how that its wearer had been predestined to high enterprise, but foredoomed to mighty reverses of fortune. Amidst all their pity for her, they spoke of the Evil Eye; some whispered that she had come to bring ruin on Volseni: had not the man who loved her lost both Crown and life?
And it was she through whom the guns had come! The meaning of the guns had spread now to every hearth; what had once been hailed as an achievement second only to her exploit in the Street of the Fountain served now to point more finely the sharpening fears of superstition. The men held by her still, but their wives were grumbling at them in their homes. Was she not, after all, a stranger? Must Volseni lie in the dust for her sake, for the sake of her who wore that ominous, inexplicable Star?
Dunstanbury knew all this; Lukovitch hardly sought to deny it, though he was full of scorn for it; and Marie Zerkovitch had by heart the tales of many wise old beldams who had prophesied this and that from the first moment that they saw the Red Star. Surely and not slowly the enthusiasm which had crowned Sophy was turning into a fear which made the people shrink from her even while they pitied, even while they did not cease to love. The hand of heaven was against her and against those who were near her, said the women. The men still feigned not to hear; had they not taken Heaven to witness that they would serve her and avenge the King? Alas, their simple vow was too primitive for days like these—too primitive for the days of the great guns which lay on the bosom of the Krath!
Dunstanbury had an interview with Sophy early on the Tuesday morning, the day after Stafnitz had started for Kolskoï. He put his case with the bluntness and honesty native to him. In his devotion to her safety he did not spare her the truth. She listened with the smile devoid of happiness which her face now wore so often.
"I know it all," she said. "They begin to look differently at me as I walk through the street—when I go to the church. If I stay here long enough, they'll all call me a witch! But didn't they swear? And I—haven't I sworn? Are we to do nothing for Monseigneur's memory?"
"What can we do against the guns? The men can die, and the walls be tumbled down! And there are the women and children!"
"Yes, I suppose we can do nothing. But it goes to my heart that they should have Monseigneur's guns."
"Your guns!" Dunstanbury reminded her with a smile of whimsical sympathy.
"That's what they say in the city, too?" she asked.
"The old hags, who are clever at the weather and other mysteries. And, of course, Madame Zerkovitch!"
Sophy's smile broadened a little. "Oh, of course, poor little Marie Zerkovitch!" she exclaimed. "She's been sure I'm a witch ever since she's known me."
"I want you to come over the frontier with me—and Basil Williamson. I've some influence, and I can insure your getting through all right."
"And then?"
"Whatever you like. I shall be utterly at your orders."
She leaned her head against the high chair in which she sat, a chair of old oak, black as her hair; she fixed her profound eyes on his.
"I wish I could stay here—in the little church—with Monseigneur," she said.
"By Heavens, no!" he cried, startled into sudden and untimely vehemence.
"All my life is there," she went on, paying no heed to his outburst.
"Give life another chance. You're very young."
"You can't count life by years, any more than hours by minutes. You reckon the journey not by the clock, but by the stages you have passed. Once before I loved a man—and he was killed in battle. But that was different. I was very hurt, but I wasn't maimed. I'm maimed now by the death of Monseigneur."
"You can't bring ruin on these folk, and you can't give yourself up to Stenovics." He could not trust himself to speak more of her feelings nor of the future; he came back to the present needs of the case.
"It's true—and yet we swore!" She leaned forward to him. "And you—aren't you afraid of the Red Star?"
"We Essex men aren't afraid, we haven't enough imagination," he answered, smiling again.
She threw herself back, crying low: "Ah, if we could strike one blow—just one—for the oath we swore and for Monseigneur! Then perhaps I should be content."
"To go with me?"
"Perhaps—if, in striking it, what I should think best didn't come to me."
"You must run no danger, anyhow," he cried, hastily and eagerly.
"My friend," she said, gently, "for such as I am to-day there's no such thing as danger. Don't think I value my position here or the title they've given me, poor men! I have loved titles"—for a moment she smiled—"and I should have loved this one, if Monseigneur had lived. I should have been proud as a child of it. If I could have borne it by his side for even a few weeks, a few days! But now it's barren and bitter—bitter and barren to me."
He followed the thoughts at which her words hinted; they seemed to him infinitely piteous.
"Now, as things have fallen out, what am I in this country? A waif and stray! I belong to nobody, and nobody to me."
"Then come away!" he burst out again.
Her deep eyes were set on his face once more. "Yes, that's the conclusion," she said, very mournfully. "We Essex people are sensible, aren't we? And we have no imagination. Did you laugh when you saw me proclaimed and heard us swear?"
"Good Heavens, no!"
"Then think how my oath and my love call me to strike one blow for Monseigneur!" She hid her eyes behind her hand for a moment. "Aren't there fifty—thirty—twenty, who would count their lives well risked? For what are men's lives given them?"
"There's one at least, if you will have it so," Dunstanbury answered.
There was a knock on the door, and without waiting for a bidding Zerkovitch came quickly in; Lukovitch was behind, and with him Lepage. Ten minutes before, the valet had ridden up to the city gates, waving his handkerchief above his head.
Sophy gave a cry of pleasure at seeing him. "A brave man, who loved his King and served Monseigneur!" she said, as she darted forward and clasped his hand.
Zerkovitch was as excited and hurried as ever. He thrust a letter into her hand. "From Stenovics, madame, for you to read," he said.
She took it, saying to Lepage with a touch of reproach: "Are you General Stenovics's messenger now, Monsieur Lepage?"
"Read it, madame," said he.
She obeyed, and then signed to Lukovitch to take it, and to Dunstanbury to read it also. "It's just what you've been saying," she told him with a faint smile, as she sank back in the high oaken seat.
"I am to add, madame," said Lepage, "that you will be treated with every consideration—any title in reason, any provision in reason, too."
"So the General's letter says."
"But I was told to repeat it," persisted the little man. He looked round on them. Lukovitch and Dunstanbury had finished reading the letter and were listening, too. "If you still hesitated, I was to impress upon you that the guns would certainly be in Slavna in less than a week—almost certainly on Sunday. You know the course of the river well, madame?"
"Not very well above Slavna, no."
"In that case, which General Stenovics didn't omit to consider, I was to remind you that Captain Lukovitch probably knew every inch of it."
"I know it intimately," said Lukovitch. "I spent two years on the timber-barges of the Krath."
"Then you, sir, will understand that the guns will certainly reach Slavna not later than Sunday." He paused for a moment, seeming to collect his memory. "By Wednesday evening Colonel Stafnitz will be at Kolskoï. On Thursday morning he'll start back. On that evening he ought to reach Evena, on Friday Rapska." Lukovitch nodded at each name. Lepage went on methodically. "On Saturday the lock at Miklevni. Yes, on Saturday the lock at Miklevni!" He paused again and looked straight at Lukovitch.
"Exactly—the lock at Miklevni," said that officer, with another nod.
"Yes, the lock at Miklevni on Saturday. You see, it's not as if the Colonel had a large force to move. That might take longer. He'll be able to move his company as quick as the barges travel."
"The stream's very strong, they travel pretty well," said Lukovitch.
"But a hundred men—it's nothing to move, Captain Lukovitch." He looked round on them again, and then turned back to Sophy. "That's all my message, madame," he said.
There was a silence.
"So it's evident the guns will be in Slavna by Sunday," Lepage concluded.
"If they reach Miklevni on Saturday—any time on Saturday—they will," said Lukovitch. "And up here very soon after!"
"The General intimated that also, Captain Lukovitch."
"The General gives us very careful information," observed Dunstanbury, looking rather puzzled. He was not so well versed in Stenovics's methods as the rest. Lukovitch smiled broadly, and even Zerkovitch gave a little laugh.
"How are things in Slavna, Monsieur Lepage?" the last named asked.
Lepage smiled a little, too. "General Stenovics is in full control of the city—during Colonel Stafnitz's absence, sir," he answered.
"They've quarrelled?" cried Lukovitch.
"Oh no, sir. Possibly General Stenovics is afraid they might." He spoke again to Sophy. "Madame, do you still blame me for being the General's messenger?"
"No, Monsieur Lepage; but there's much to consider in the message. Captain Lukovitch, if Monseigneur had read this message, what would he have thought the General meant?"
Lukovitch's face was full of excitement as he answered her:
"The Prince wouldn't have cared what General Stenovics meant. He would have said that the guns would be three days on the river before they came to Slavna, that the barges would take the best part of an hour to get through Miklevni lock, that there was good cover within a quarter of a mile of the lock—"
Sophy leaned forward eagerly. "Yes, yes?" she whispered.
"And that an escort of a hundred men was—well, might be—not enough!"
"And that riding from Volseni—?"
"One might easily be at Miklevni before Colonel Stafnitz and the guns could arrive there!"
Dunstanbury gave a start, Zerkovitch a chuckle, Lepage a quiet smile. Sophy rose to her feet; the Star glowed, there was even color in her cheeks besides.
"If there are fifty, or thirty, or twenty," she said, her eyes set on Dunstanbury, "who would count their lives well risked, we may yet strike one blow for Monseigneur and for the guns he loved."
Dunstanbury looked round. "There are three here," he said.
"Four!" called Basil Williamson from the doorway, where he had stood unobserved.
"Five!" cried Sophy, and, for the first time since Monseigneur died, she laughed.
"Five times five, and more, if we can get good horses enough!" said Captain Lukovitch.
"I should like to join you, but I must go back and tell General Stenovics that you will consider his message, madame," smiled Lepage.