When Crane returned to consciousness he found himself lying in a cramped and painful position on a rough clay surface.
He fell into a violent fit of coughing. The atmosphere about him was smoke-charged and stiflingly close and hot. A steady, crackling sound above gradually impressed itself upon his groping mind with startling import. He was lying under the shelter of a burning building.
After many futile attempts, Crane managed to struggle into a sitting position. The light from the burning roof provided sufficient illumination to enable him to see that the hamlet was deserted and given over to the ravages of the fire which had gained such headway that to remain longer where he was would be fatal. The wall above him might crumble in at any time. Breathing had become difficult and painful. The smoke that filled his lungs shook him with rasping, suffocating spells of coughing. Dimly he heard sounds of receding conflict beyond the village.
Crane struggled to his feet and lurched weakly forward, blinded with the smoke. Next moment, overcome with the intense heat, he fainted dead away.
It was some time after that Crane again regained consciousness. This time he was lying on the ground, his head reclining comfortably on a pillow made of some folded garment. A water-soaked bandage encircled his brow, giving inexpressible relief. He attempted to pull himself together and sit up, but desisted from the effort with an involuntary groan.
"Hello, here's old Crane coming around after all," said the voice of Fenton, somewhere close at hand.
"Right as rain in a minute," said Crane weakly. Then, after a pause, "Where am I?"
"Don't know exactly myself," said Fenton. "We got you out of the burning village just in the nick of time and carried you back into the woods here. How are you feeling now?"
"A little brandy would make a new man of me. Any handy?"
A flask, containing some raw, red-hot Ironian equivalent, was produced and a liberal measure poured down his throat. Crane coughed, spluttered and finally sat up, little the worse for wear, but still weak and decidedly giddy in the head.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Everything went off as per schedule," said Fenton. "The Austrians started to set fire to the village, and then Larescu and his men opened fire on them. The invaders put up a short fight and retired with more precipitancy than order. Last I saw of it, they were headed for the river with the hill men in hot pursuit. If the river has continued to rise, the Austrians will have some difficulty in getting back to their own side. I didn't join in the chase as I was getting anxious about you. Luckily, Mademoiselle Petrowa found you and managed to drag you out of the road just before the front of a burning hut collapsed on you."
"Mademoiselle Petrowa! Now what, on the word of a bald-headed friar, was she doing there?" exclaimed Crane.
A soft voice, proceeding from some point close behind him, spoke up.
"It is indeed the great pleasure that Mistaire Crane has recovered. One judges from his choice of words that he is feeling much the better."
"I have a double duty to perform then—to thank you for saving my life and to lecture you for your folly in being where you could do it," said Crane, with a return of his habitual manner.
"My good friend, the brave Mistaire Crane will please forget the thanks and save the lectures until he is stronger," insisted Anna. "If I have been foolish, it has been in the best company. Her highness was helping in the search for you."
"Yes, they both insisted on coming along," put in Fenton. "I had the greatest difficulty in keeping them off the firing-line. If all the women of Ironia are as fiery as the pair I've had on my hands to-night, I shall feel the deepest compassion for any army that attempts the invasion of the country!"
"I'll never forgive myself for this night's work," said Crane dejectedly. "I bungled things badly in not getting away in time. Then Mademoiselle has to risk her very valuable life to save my very worthless one——"
It was still dark. A soft hand from somewhere was slipped confidingly into his. Crane did not finish the sentence.
A moment later a gipsy-clad girl, who had been sitting silently by during the dialogue, rose unobtrusively and led Fenton away.
"I am glad," whispered the princess. "I don't mind confessing now that I have been very jealous of your Mademoiselle Petrowa."
*****
With the first light of dawn came Take Larescu, an unsheathed sword in his hand. The gigantic leader of the hill men was mud-stained and dishevelled, but thoroughly well pleased with himself.
"Not an Austrian remains on the sacred soil of our Ironia," he declared, mopping his brow with a bright silk handkerchief, drawn from his belt, "except a hundred or so who will never go back. And more good news for you, my young friend. A party of my men have burned Kirkalisse to the ground. Everything comes to him who strikes while the iron is hot."
For a moment Fenton said nothing. Then: "Kirkalisse burnt. Miridoff dead. Austrian invasion of Ironian soil. Ironian rout of the Austrians. This is news. It must be got to Serajoz, and that at once."
"As to the raid of the Austrians," replied the brigand chief, "I have already arranged that part of it. Messengers have been sent east, west and south. All Ironia will know within the next twenty-four hours that our country has been invaded, and that means——"
"That war is certain," Fenton finished the sentence spiritedly.
Neither spoke for a second. Then the hill leader drew Fenton closer and whispered to him: "We captured several of Miridoff's men at Kirkalisse."
"Yes. What did you find out?"
"They told us all they knew. One of them was the young gipsy who had been sent with a token—the princess's ring, was it not?—which, as I was able to understand it, was to stop a proposed assassination of Prince Peter. But he had not been able to find his man, to warn him."
Fenton started. In a moment he visualised all that this item of news meant. Was, then, Miridoff's death of no avail?
"Do you mean, then," he asked, "that the assassin has done his work?"
"No. Prince Peter, it appears, changed his plans and returned to Serajoz by another route."
"Thank God! Then everything will be all right."
"I don't know," said Larescu, shaking his shaggy head. "The assassin has followed him on the road. But I think the prince had start enough, from what I hear, to get to Serajoz a good few hours before the assassin could come up with him. Nevertheless, someone should go to the capital immediately."
"Yes, you are right," broke in the Canadian. "I shall go myself. Find me a guide back through the mountains."
King Alexander of Ironia stood in an embrasure of the royal council room. He appeared to be gazing over the crowded, turbulent Lodz, but in reality he saw nothing; nor did the wild clamour that rose from the mob-ridden square in front of the palace reach his ears. The King stared into space while angry emotions ran riot in his mind. Adamant determination, black anger and futile longing for strength to combat his aroused subjects, filled the brain of the baffled monarch. A truly royal figure he appeared, standing there alone by the window—arms folded on his breast, mouth set in ominous lines, staring out into space as silent and as motionless as bronze.
Back in the council room a number of men were seated around a long table, conversing in low tones and furtively regarding the solitary figure of the monarch.
"His Majesty will never give in," said Danilo Vanilis, the shrewdest and strongest of the King's councillors. "I know him. He has sworn not to fight Potsdam—and he will die rather than break his pledge."
"But he can't resist longer," interjected another. "The Austrian invasion has stirred the country up from one end to the other. The army clamours for war. Officers, who have been known to favour the Austrian cause, have been forcibly ejected. There is not a man left in Ironia to back the King. He must give in."
"Look at him," said Vanilis. "There he stands, like a lion at bay; see the poise of his head, the set of the lips, the brooding light in the eyes. Alexander would stand fast if the whole world took sides against him; he would fight single-handed against the hosts of the Archangel. It is as pitiable as it is strange that such determination, such grand devotion, should have found its vent only in upholding a tradition!"
"Still more strange that the Austrians should have committed this open act of war," whispered a third. "It was rumoured that Miridoff had a carefully concocted scheme that would inevitably result in plunging us into war with the Russians. Then, like a bolt from the blue, comes this mad exploit of the Austrians. And, strangest of all, Miridoff himself has disappeared."
"It can only be understood when it is explained that it occurred in the mountains," said a fourth. "Anything can happen there. Take Larescu led the force which drove the Austrians back over the Bhura. Mark my word, Larescu is at the bottom of this. And, what is more, I am convinced that Miridoff has been killed."
"And not too soon!" A murmured chorus of assent ran around the board. Vanilis, after a pause, went on, speaking in a low tone: "It is strange that Peter has not returned. He was to have been with us. You all heard the rumour that an attempt would be made to assassinate him on his way back. It cannot be that——"
He paused. There was no need to finish the sentence, for the faces of all the company advertised the fact that the same fear had entered the mind of each man there. It was a disquieting thought; for all men recognised now that the strong hand of Prince Peter was needed at the helm.
"Gentlemen!"
The King had faced about. Slowly, with white, set face and dignified stride, His Majesty walked back to the head of the table. He glanced coldly about the board.
"You have demanded that we sign this monstrous paper," he said, his voice hard. "An ungrateful country clamours for war. Our word has been pledged that Ironia shall not join in the war against the German empires. That word must stand. Sirs, we refuse absolutely to sign this iniquitous declaration!"
"Recollect what this refusal means, sire," urged Vanilis. "The army is determined. Even the household guards have joined in the clamour. Sire, your life might even be placed in jeopardy?"
"Our life is of no value beside our honour," said Alexander, with dignified scorn. He reached into the breast of his uniform and drew out a document, which he threw, almost contemptuously, on the table before him. "There is our answer. The hand of Alexander will never sign the order that declares this war. But, sirs, if on war you are bent, war you shall have. We gladly lay down the distasteful task of ruling a nation of ingrates."
The men round the table sat silent. But each of them knew that the paper was the King's abdication!
As he turned the sound of sudden tumultuous cheering came up to them from the streets below. It was almost as though the news of the stubborn King's dramatic exit had been translated by some speedy telepathy to the eager crowds without. Alexander frowned bitterly and turned back to the silent company about the council table.
"They cheer now," he said grimly. "What will they do after your mad determination and their lust has flooded the country in blood—and German Uhlans ride down the Lodz? Sirs, I have warned you. The ruin of Ironia be on your heads!"
"We do not fear that!" cried Vanilis. "We fight for the provinces that were stolen from us, and God will be with us."
Alexander did not reply. He walked slowly from the room, head held proudly high, one hand clenched across his breast, the other pressed tightly on his sword hilt.
"The King is dead," uttered one of the men, almost with awe. "Long live the——"
"Long live King Peter!" cried another, with enthusiasm.
For a door at the other end of the hall had opened to admit the prince. His sudden arrival was the cause, obviously, of the clamour that had broken out in the square below. Prince Peter was flushed with rapid riding and spattered with mud. It was clear that he had ridden far and fast to attend this momentous conference.
"Gentlemen, it is war!" he cried, with high enthusiasm. "The country through which I have come is literally ablaze. Nothing can hold us back now. Austria has struck the first blow. And I bring you news. The Russian armies move on Mulkovina to-morrow. Ironia must declare herself to-day."
Danilo Vanilis, sitting at the end of the table, rose and held a paper out toward him.
"All that is needed is the signature of His Majesty the King. Sign, sire!"
Peter gazed at the other for a moment, growing wonderment on his face. Then he glanced quickly around the crowded board.
"Alexander abdicated five minutes ago. King Peter now rules in Ironia," announced Vanilis with a low bow.
Peter was a man of quick comprehension and decision. He grasped the pen.
"That king is fortunate," he declared, "whose first duty is to fight a cause so dear to the hearts of the people over whom he has been called to rule! To-night, sirs, we leave for the front!"
Events moved fast in Ironia. At five o'clock Peter was publicly declared King, the announcement being received with manifestations of the wildest joy in Serajoz. At five-thirty an official statement of Ironia's intentions was communicated to the Ambassadors of Austria, Germany and Turkey, and their passports were handed to them. At six o'clock the first regiment marched out of the capital for the front, through streets lined with deliriously happy multitudes.
The work of mobilisation was begun in feverish haste. King Peter spent three hours directing the efforts of the general staff and in conference with the leading bankers. As he worked, however, the new monarch never for a moment lost sight of the grim spectre that had haunted him for two days. Varden had brought him word of the abduction of Olga just as he was preparing for his trip to the frontier. Since then he had heard no news of her.
A Spartan in everything else, Peter had been the most loving and indulgent of fathers. Olga, left an orphan when less than a year old, had soon gained complete possession of her father's heart. He had pampered and petted her in quite as complete a degree as any fond parent that ever ruined a child in sheer blindness of affection; but Olga, having one of those rare natures that cannot be spoiled, even by parental indulgence, had developed greater stores of sweetness and grace in the strong light of her father's love. It can be surmised, therefore, that when the news of the abduction of the princess had reached him he had been thrown into a ferment of fear; but, knowing how much the welfare of Ironia depended upon him, Peter had delayed his departure only long enough to issue instructions for the pursuit of her abductors.
The news awaiting him on his return had been disquieting. No direct clue as to her whereabouts had been found, although there was plenty of evidence to show that the abduction had been the work of brigands from the hills. It was with a heavy heart, therefore, that Peter applied himself to the multitudinous duties devolving upon him with his sudden accession to the throne of Ironia on the eve of her entry into the war.
Outside the demonstration continued, growing in enthusiasm as hour succeeded hour. Military headquarters were besieged by men begging for an opportunity to enlist. A statue in the square before the royal palace, representing the lost provinces, was literally covered with flowers. The public streets were rendered quite impassable by the masses of exuberant citizens who loudly acclaimed the new King, and clamoured for a sight of him.
About the time that His Majesty rose from the desk to which he had been chained for three hours of unremitting activity, Fenton, weary and dust-laden, astride a foam-flecked horse, turned into the north end of the Lodz. On receiving the startling intelligence that the human instrument of Miridoff's foul purpose had followed Prince Peter to the capital, intent on carrying out his work, Fenton had at once secured a guide from Larescu and had negotiated a difficult short cut through the mountain country. Arriving at the base of the chain of hills in the early forenoon, he had procured a horse. An all-day gallop with one change of mount in the late afternoon, brought him to the city about nine o'clock, in a condition bordering on total collapse. Since his arrival in Ironia, Fenton had found little opportunity for sleep, and his exploits had been as varied as they were arduous. By sheer force of will only was he able to maintain his seat in the saddle.
The presence of dense crowds in the Lodz did not surprise him; all the way down from the hill country he had found increasing evidences of excitement which satisfied him that Crane's spectacular coup had finally brought Ironia into the war.
As the density of the crowd grew he was forced to abandon his mount and continue forward toward the palace of the prince on foot. It became very slow work, until finally Fenton's patience gave way. Fearing that every moment lost might cost the prince his life, Fenton broke recklessly through the crush which inevitably brought him into conflict in a crowd where the fighting spirit ran so high. As he crossed the square in front of the King's palace a much excited and picturesquely ragged man blocked his way determinedly. Fenton roughly elbowed him aside and received in reprisal a blow in the face. His assailant poured out a volume of abuse in French, which caused the Canadian to turn and regard him curiously. To his delight Fenton recognised his acquaintance of the Greek restaurant, Monsieur Francois Dubois.
"Dubois, by all that's holy!" he cried. "It's lucky I can claim a prior acquaintance, otherwise I fear you would be inclined to show me no mercy. You have plenty of strength left in that arm of yours, my friend."
"Monsieur Fenton," cried the Frenchman. "Ah, my young friend, forgive me. I have strength left, yes—strength to shoulder a rifle, monsieur. To-morrow I enlist for the service."
"I am just back from the hill country," said Fenton. "What is the news? Has war been declared yet?"
"War was declared by our good King Peter within an hour of his accession to the throne," cried the Frenchman.
"King Peter!" exclaimed Fenton, surveying Monsieur Dubois as though he feared the Frenchman had been suddenly bereft of his senses.
"It was just as I told you, monsieur. Alexander would not give in. When he found that war could no longer be staved off he abdicated, and Peter became King."
"Then I must lose no time," cried Fenton. "It is doubly important that I get to him at once. I have news of a plot against his life."
He plunged with reckless haste through the crowds, opening an avenue by sheer force, and thus enabling Monsieur Dubois to follow along in his wake without difficulty.
"Make way! In the name of the King!" cried the Frenchman in the native tongue. This caused the people in front to give way. Nevertheless the progress of the pair was intolerably slow.
There is an emotional strain in the Ironian which manifests itself in moments of stress and unusual excitement. When stirred by any deep emotion he will emit strange cries and break into high-pitched interminable chants. To the visitor this tendency is inexplicable, and it has contributed not a little to the feeling among other races that there is something uncanny about the men of the Balkan mountains. As Fenton piloted Monsieur Dubois through the square this monotonous chant arose from all sides, and, mingling with the shrill and warlike cries, created a literal pandemonium of sound.
As they neared the front of the palace there was a stir which indicated that something of importance was happening. As Fenton looked the windows opening on to a balcony to the right of the main entrance were thrown back and two officers stepped out. The noise ceased almost instantly, and a silence settled down over the square. Following the two officers came Peter, in uniform and bare-headed. He stepped to the front of the balcony, and, resting his hands on the top of the grotesquely ornamental iron railing, swept the crowded square and the streets beyond with a proud eye.
His appearance was the signal for an outbreak even more vociferous than before. Peter had always been popular with the people of Ironia, more popular than the haughty, unbending Alexander. His advocacy of the allied cause had cemented the affection of the populace, and now his prompt action following his accession to the throne raised him as a national hero even to the pinnacle of Alexander Sobiesku of revered memory.
The King raised his hand as a signal for silence, and again the noise died down to the uncertain rumble of a mob at rest. Fenton, wedged in firmly and unable to make any material progress either forward or back, had up to this point kept his gaze fixed on the stately figure of the King. Now his glance wandered to a burly fellow just ahead of him, a peasant from his garb. The man attracted Fenton's attention in some inexplicable way, and as the Canadian watched he perceived something which caused him to cry out in frantic tones of alarm.
"Men of Ironia," the King began in clear tones that carried each word distinctly to the farthest confines of the square. Then of a sudden came the sharp crack of a revolver shot, and Peter staggered back from the railing into the arms of the officers behind him.
The peasant had levelled a revolver over the shoulder of the man in front of him. Fenton, perceiving the move, had torn a path through the press toward the assassin. His hands had closed almost on the peasant's shoulder when the explosion broke the silence.
"Too late! My God, to have him within my reach and not stop him," groaned Fenton, stunned with the catastrophe that had occurred before his very eyes.
He reeled blindly in the rush of the enraged mob and was buffeted here and there. The gun-man had apparently been surrounded by accomplices and friends, for the vengeance-seeking mob was held back and hampered in its pursuit of the daring peasant. In the darkness and confusion the assassin disappeared, swallowed up in the agitated sea of humanity. Two days later he was given up and summarily shot; but, having no foreknowledge of this, the crowd, balked of their prey and frantic with anxiety for the wounded monarch, descended to depths of vengeful, berserk fury that could vent itself only in indiscriminate conflict. Friend fought friend, blows were struck with savage hate, blood flowed freely.
Fenton found himself propelled out of the now almost bestial crowd to a side street where comparative calm reigned. Monsieur Dubois, guessing how near to the point of total collapse his companion was, hurried Fenton to the nearest open shop and there procured a brimming beaker of strong liquor. After drinking the restorative Fenton felt a measure of his strength return.
"Another moment and Monsieur Fenton would have been under the feet of the mob," said the Frenchman. "They are wild for blood back there! Hearken to their cries! If the King dies, not an Austrian will be left alive in this city by break of day."
"If he dies!" echoed Fenton in an agony of remorse. "To think that I arrived just too late. If he dies I shall feel as guilty as the wretch who fired the shot!"
"He cannot—he must not die!" cried Dubois. "Ironia needs the strong hand of her King now. God will not take him away when he has but placed his hand to the plough."
*****
Back in the palace two physicians were bending over the prostrate figure of the wounded King with significant silence.
"He still lives," said one finally, "but——"
And the other nodded with grim acquiescence.
It was noon when Fenton awoke the next day. He awoke to a sense of unfamiliar surroundings. Above him was a ceiling of dingy, brownish hue. The walls, he discovered on investigation, were similar to the ceiling and unadorned save for a few dusty old French prints. The bed on which he lay was hard and lumpy, the coverlet ancient and thin. There was a faint mustiness observable in the atmosphere and through a half-closed door came the sound of a bow softly scraping the strings of a decrepit violin. Fenton sat bolt upright in bed and examined his surroundings with much surprise and, truth to tell, a little alarm.
The fact that he was awake was thus communicated to the musician in the other room; for a shuffling step crossed the floor and the head of Monsieur Dubois was poked inquiringly through the door.
"Now I understand," said Fenton, putting one leg out of the bed, and groaning with the effort—for a full day in the saddle will leave its effects on the most experienced horseman.
"Monsieur is surprised," said the old Frenchman, coming into the room with his violin in one hand—a rather crazy, poverty-stricken kind of violin—and the bow in the other. "It was this way. Monsieur Fenton was quite so fatigued that he fell sound asleep in the café and nothing could arouse him. Luckily my lodgings were close by and, with the help of a stout young fellow, who will return to-day for some compensation, which I had to promise, not having anything by me"—this apologetically—"we managed to get monsieur here and to bed. I trust that monsieur is feeling much better?"
Fenton was already out of bed and in the middle of his toilet. He dressed hurriedly, albeit stiffly.
"What news is there?" he asked gravely. "What of the King?"
An expression of sadness came into the fine eyes of the old exile.
"It is indeed the great catastrophe, monsieur," he said. "The King is dying. I have just come from the palace where the official bulletins are published. He has not recovered consciousness. The physicians hold out no hope."
Fenton's worst fears were realised. It was some minutes before he could recover sufficient composure to go on.
"Has the assassin been caught?" he asked.
Monsieur Dubois shook his head. Then lines of anger and determination showed around his eyes and mouth. He elevated one arm and shook the bow menacingly. "The arch assassin, he shall pay for this!" he exclaimed. "It is told everywhere on the streets that it was Miridoff who planned the murder of the King—the strong King who was needed to lead Ironia to victory. Ironia has a heavy score to settle with Miridoff."
"Miridoff is dead," said Fenton.
"How do you know?" demanded the musician eagerly. "There is nothing known of the Grand Duke's whereabouts. Serajoz is full of the mystery."
"He is dead beyond all doubt," declared the Canadian. "I killed him myself."
Followed a brief recital of some of the principal events in the mountains which had led up to the capture of the hunting lodge, and the release of the princess. Monsieur Dubois could hardly restrain himself. At the conclusion of the narrative he seized Fenton by both hands and poured out a volley of incoherent praise.
"My young friend has had a most great honour," he wound up by saying. "It has fallen to his lot to rescue the Queen of Ironia. What honours shall be heaped upon him!"
"What do you mean?" demanded Fenton, almost roughly.
"If Peter dies the throne will pass to the Princess Olga," explained the other. "She is the last of the line. Alexander is childless, and the princess is the only child of Peter. There is no one to dispute the throne with our beautiful Olga, who, it is said, is just as good as she is beautiful."
Fenton, who had suddenly sought a seat, did not say anything.
The musician rambled on:
"And a great heritage she will come into, this Queen Olga." The old Frenchman, fond as he was of the country from which he was an exile, had a very real regard for the welfare of the little land where he had lived so long. "When the war is over," his voice droned on, "Ironia will have added again the two provinces, Serania and Mulkovina. And I shall throw up my hat nearly as joyfully for that as I shall for the return into the victorious borders of La Belle France of Alsace-Lorraine." This last appeared to overcome him for a moment, and he paused before starting again.
"Ironia will then have a population of ten million, Monsieur Fenton. Think of that. She will become a power in Europe on a scale long looked forward to by her rulers. Then the young Queen will have a great country to reign over."
Fenton raised his head and clutched at a figurative straw. "But can a woman occupy the throne of Ironia?"
"But certainly. She will marry, of course. Indeed, even now they are saying on the street that a match will be made for our Queen with a prince of Serbia. It would be a fine stroke." The Frenchman mooned on while Fenton sat dumbfounded. This old man was calmly and unwittingly puncturing the bubbles of happiness that had engrossed the Canadian's attention since the romantic episode of the hills. "It would cement once again the Balkan confederacy. Some of the glory of the past would be theirs, and more glory than the past ever knew."
"Supposing the princess were already married, though?" said Fenton slowly and in a strained tone.
"Eh?" The old Frenchman opened his eyes sharply. "A—what you call—morganatic marriage?"
"No," said the other impatiently. "Supposing that the princess, not expecting to be Queen of Ironia, had married someone quietly—not expecting to be Queen," he repeated, as if to urge to himself and the old man every possible means of exit from thiscul-de-sacthat, for the first time, he realised he had landed in. "What then?"
"It would make no difference." Monsieur Dubois shook his head decidedly. "It would be set aside, my young friend. Nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of matters of State."
Fenton was silent for a moment. Then he stood up and straightened his shoulders. He felt as if he must be alone at once. "Monsieur Dubois," he said, "you have spoken to me about the one aim you have—to get back to France. You have been very kind to me. Will you permit me to reciprocate ever so little and advance the necessary means?"
The old man shook his head and smiled. "They may not take me back in La Belle France. I am an old man. But here, young and old, all will get a chance. I shall stay, monsieur."
He too rose and squared his shoulders. His frame was a little bent, his hands trembled, but there was a look of profound determination and of profounder pride in his eyes as he shook back his tousled grey hair. "Maybe we shall meet at the front, Monsieur Fenton," he said.
They did. It was two months afterward in a field hospital along the frontier. A shell had shattered the musician's leg. He did not recognise Fenton, and babbled incoherently of France and freedom.
*****
Leaving the lodgings of Monsieur Dubois, Fenton hurried to the palace. Varden, he felt sure, would be there.
The streets were strangely different from what he had known them when, barely a week before, he had arrived in Serajoz fur the first time. The city seemed to be one gigantic military camp. Troops passed and repassed. The rumble of artillery was a familiar sound, and occasioned little specific interest. The crowds were smaller already. Thousands of men had enlisted. They had been talking about war for months. They were prepared.
Fenton found Varden at the palace. The latter was coming down the corridor which led from the personal suite of the King. Silently Varden gripped the hand of the Canadian, and for a moment did not speak. Then, "Peter is dead," he said in a low tone.
Fenton asked the question very quietly: "When?"
"He died a few minutes ago," returned the other. "Come."
Varden turned and led the way down the corridor through knots of officials, and through the antechamber where stood a few chosen friends and councillors, conversing in low tones, to a small detached office.
They sat down.
"Don," said Varden, "you've done wonderful work. I've heard all about it. The princess arrived this morning with Mademoiselle Petrowa and that strange fellow Crane you picked upen route. He's a queer fish, but I like him. I haven't had a chance to see the princess, but the others are full of your exploits."
"The princess will be Queen now?" Fenton tried to keep his voice calm, but his mind was in a turmoil.
"Yes. I'm afraid this cooks your goose, old chap," said Varden easily. "She's bound to have some princeling or other for a husband now. In fact, a match is already spoken of."
Fenton nodded. Varden's remarks had convinced him on one score. Anna and Crane had said nothing about the ceremony over the tongs. Fenton stood up, restraint and determination mingling in his bearing. "It's quite impossible, I suppose, for me to see—Her Majesty"—his voice trembled slightly, then grew quite firm again. "Percy," he said, "you can fix me up with a post in the army? I want to be right up at the front."
Varden nodded without any particular enthusiasm.
"Wish I could go too," he said. "I'll get there, of course, as soon as the matter of the Queen's accession is settled. Until then I feel it my duty to stay here and watch things. And that means I'll miss the opening of the campaign."
"Is there any doubt," asked Fenton slowly, "as to the accession of Olga to the throne?"
"No," replied Varden. "But these are parlous times, Don. The new ruler is a woman, and there are some ambitious men at the head of the state at present. I have no doubt that Danilo Vanilis would not scruple to sweep her aside and seize the vacant throne himself if it were not for the fact that there are several others quite as ambitious and almost as powerful as himself who wouldn't stand by. Dynasties are unstable things in the Balkans, Don. Still, I am counting on the mutual jealousy of the leaders to provide the means for Olga to step quietly into her rights."
Fenton straightened up. In the face of this hint of a possible plot against the woman he loved, all mental uncertainty vanished.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "Nothing must stand between the princess and her rights. If money would be any inducement to quiet these trouble-makers, I'm willing to contribute all that I have."
"Quite unnecessary, Mr Quixote," said Varden. "There is a powerful faction to watch the interests of our little Olga. Never fear, she shall be Queen of Ironia."
Fenton sat on a camp stool beneath the sloping sides of a canvas tent. Gusts of wind found their way inside, causing the candle that stood on a small table beside him to flicker uncertainly. Outside could be heard the even tramp of a sentry, and at rare intervals the thud of horses' hoofs. From a distance came the steady rumble that told of transport wagons on the move. Fenton wore the uniform of a cavalry officer.
Two days had passed since the death of King Peter, interminable days of torture and mental travail to the young Canadian. From the moment that Varden had spoken the fateful words, "Peter is dead," Fenton had in a vague way realised the duty that lay before him; although it was only after a long struggle with the promptings of his love that he had bowed to the inevitable. Olga was now Queen of Ironia. A great and shining future was before her. An empire lay within her grasp. What part could he, an alien and a commoner, expect to play in that future? True, she had married him, but when matters of state were hanging in the balance, a gipsy marriage over the tongs would be counted of little consequence. It could easily be set aside. In any case, who were there who knew of that romance of the hills? Anna Petrowa and Crane shared the secret with himself and Olga—no one else—and they would say no word.
He must go away. If it were deemed necessary to resort to the church for a proper dissolution of the bonds, he would render every assistance in his power. But this perhaps would not be necessary—for he was going to the front, a soldier of Her Serene Majesty, Queen Olga. That there was no other course open to him was quite clear. His presence would distress her, render the part she had to play more difficult for her. To save her the painful task of breaking off the relationship between them, he must go.
The two days had been busy ones, which was fortunate, for his mind had been kept occupied. He had been given a post in a cavalry brigade. With an almost savage absorption he had plunged into the stern duty of fitting himself for the work at the front. With grim but keen anticipation he had practised with the finely balanced sabre and the brace of revolvers that constituted his implements of warfare. No trooper rides in the charge with more reckless daring and insatiable determination than the man whose heart is filled with a tragedy of love. Fenton would undoubtedly prove a first-class fighting man.
That day at noon he had seen Phil Crane off with the artillery. The voluble Englishman had some knowledge of guns, and nothing would satisfy him but a post with the very first batteries that lumbered off for the front. Accordingly, being a most arrogant fellow, as has perhaps already been demonstrated, Crane had bluntly informed Anna of his intention of marrying her before leaving, and had then dragged her off to a church; the little dancer, truth to tell, being quite willing, under a pretence of reluctance. Fenton had witnessed the ceremony. He had again impressed upon them both the necessity for silence on the score of what had happened at the Hawk's Rest, and then had ridden back to the camp, which had been established outside Serajoz, with a careless: "I'll see you up at the front, Phil."
In the dim and guttering light of the candle, Fenton was writing. With many long and painful pauses he worked, until finally the letter lay before him completed. He read it over to himself again, considering each word and phrase:
"MY DEAREST,—I am addressing you as my heart dictates for the last time. For this I humbly crave your forgiveness. Perhaps, as this is the last message that can pass between us, you will condone my offence. I leave to-morrow for the front. We shall never see each other again.
"There is so much for you to forgive. My failure to save your father has weighed heavily upon me, and I realise how deeply you must feel the consequences. I tried my best—and, in the light of subsequent events, it has seemed to me that the hand of Fate intervened. It was God's will that you should rule over Ironia.
"A throne now separates us, and, my dearest wife (I cannot help so calling you), I realise fully what must be done. I bow to the inevitable. If the difficulties of your position in view of what transpired in the hills, have added to the measure of your sorrow, I want to give you complete assurance on the score of my acceptance of the part that has devolved upon me. If legal proceedings are necessary, I shall lend every assistance. But I do not think it will come to that. Heavy fighting is ahead of us, and I may be fortunate——
"I cannot find words to express the depth of my love for you. My darling! My bride! It is hard to give you up! But to have won your love, if only to lose it, is greater fortune than I deserve. The memory of your love will remain with me to the last. It provides me now in the depth of my despair with a wonderful solace. I have known greater happiness than ever before fell to the lot of man—and with that great thought stored in my mind I face the future—whatever it holds—with courage. I surrender you to a brilliant future, Olga, Queen of Ironia. May it be as happy as it will be illustrious.... I know that sometimes you will think of me.
"And so, my wife, good-bye.
"Henceforth I shall be a soldier in your army. Your Majesty will have none more loyal and respectful. If I die in your service—I can think of no greater end. If I live, I shall stand ready to come from any place in the wide world at your bidding. If it should come about that you ever need me, all that I have, my life, will be at your service."
*****
The letter on its way, Fenton gave himself up to a hopeless train of reflection. He saw Olga again as on the first time that they had met, beautiful, stately, on the crowded floor of the ball-room. Again he saw her there among the palms as he hastily warned her of the evil that might befall her father. Once more she stood, framed in the doorway of Varden's library, the personification of offended dignity. The scene changed and he lived over the thrill of their first embrace. He pictured her as they had stood hand in hand, plighting their marriage vows over the tongs; and finally he visioned afresh her surprise when she had found him to be her husband—and he saw the wonderful tenderness that grew in her eyes.
He would never see her again!
His vigil was a long one. Early dawn found him, haggard of face and heavy of eye, staring moodily across to the eastern hills above which the rays of the rising sun heralded a new day—a day devoid of happiness and zest, the first of an endless succession of empty days. Fenton resented the new day, for it brought him no purpose, no hope.
An orderly came with a letter.
Fenton took it. He knew what it was, and his hand trembled. He had, of course, expected an answer; in fact, he had satisfied himself as to what she would almost certainly say. Her letter would be dignified, tender, regretful. It would voice the strength of her determination to devote her life to her people; perhaps it would reveal something of her love. And yet as he turned the note in his hands the hopes and longings that he had spent the night in putting aside trooped back and ran riot through his mind.
He opened it and read:
"Come to me at once.—OLGA."
The body of King Peter lay in state. All the previous day a continuous line of his mourning subjects had filed past the royal bier to gaze for the last time on the placid face of this King of an hour, who had given up his life in their service. Now the darkened room, hung with heavy curtains of sombre hue, through which the light of the early morning sun penetrated but dimly, seemed at first glance deserted. As Fenton's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, however, he made out a slender figure in black standing on the raised dais, her head pillowed on her arms, which rested on the side of the bier.
The quiet figure stirred at the sound of his approaching footsteps. She raised her head, then straightened up and stepped down to meet him. Olga was very pale and sad of face, but a tender welcome showed in her eyes.
"You came quickly," she said in a low tone.
Fenton had expected that the change in their positions would be reflected in her attitude, so he could scarcely credit it when, coming forward, she placed both her hands in his and looked up into his face with the same tenderness and infinite trust that she had shown when they parted.
"Olga!" he exclaimed, then stopped, finding no words to express his emotions.
"I received your letter last night," she went on in the same low tone. "I had already made up my mind, but your letter was a wonderful revelation. My dear, my dear, I never thought—I had not dared to think you loved me so!"
Fenton had not for a moment allowed his gaze to wander from her face. He noted with solicitude how wan and pale she was. The intensity of her grief showed in every line, but beneath it all was the light of a great resolution that almost transcended her sorrow.
"Why did you send for me?" he asked. "I didn't intend to see you again. I didn't want to make it—the inevitable—hard for you."
She nodded and pressed his hand gratefully.
"I understood your brave purpose," she said. "It spoke from every line of your letter. I read it many, many times and blessed you for it. But what you proposed is not necessary now."
Fenton did not understand. He was frankly puzzled at everything—her words, her attitude, even her dress. From the first moment that his eyes had rested upon her he had been aware of some subtle change. Too closely absorbed in his love and his loss for matters of detail to register on his mind, he had in a general way realised that there was something about her that was strangely different.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I am not Queen of Ironia," she said quietly. "I have refused the crown."
There was a tense pause.
Fenton gazed at her a moment in wonderment. Then, as full realisation of what her statement meant flashed through his mind, he drew her hands to his lips with a gesture of passionate gratitude. The unexpected had happened, a miracle had come to pass. Olga would continue his wife!
"I gave my answer to the council an hour before your letter reached me," she said with quiet simplicity. "There was no question as to my course when I found that acceptance of the crown would have meant foregoing my vows to you. Fortunately my decision was rendered easy by the attitude of some of the members of the council, who felt that the strong hand of a man was needed at the helm at this time. Certain ones there are, high in rank in Ironia, who would not scruple to seize the throne themselves. My father's loyal adherents supported me strongly and urged that I should assert my right to the throne, but I gladly, oh so gladly, relinquished all claim. And so I am free—and your wife!"
Fenton had sunk to his knees before her.
"I can hardly understand yet," he said humbly. "You have given up a throne—for me."
"For love and duty," she replied. "I can be of more value to my country now than had I essayed to fill my father's place. With Danilo Vanilis at the head of a provisional government, Ironia will be sure of capable handling during the times of stress that are ahead. After the war—if personal ambitions can be kept in check—Ironia may become a republic."
"But—what can I do to compensate you for what you have given up," cried Fenton.
He read the answer in her eyes.
*****
There was a long pause. The silent presence of the royal dead chastened the joy of their reunion.
"Olga," said Fenton finally, "duty calls me. In two hours my regiment leaves for the front. I must say good-bye."
"No, not good-bye," she answered, raising her arm. "I too going to serve my country. See—I go to the front with you!"
At last Fenton understood the change in her appearance that had puzzled him. She was dressed in a plain black uniform, and on her arm was the Red Cross.
THE END
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