“Pardon, dearest Princess!” she said, stepping out hastily, “but that is the Pannonian Consul-General’s wife, who has not been presented to you. I won’t inflict her on you, if you will permit me to go to her, for she is a sad bore.”
Not guessing that the lady in question was really the wife of the British Consul-General, and one of the persons in all Therma whom Madame Ladoguin least wished her to meet, Eirene looked round for some means of utilising this opportunity. The programme of a concert which was to take place for some charity lay on the seat opposite her, and she snatched it up and wrote on it in pencil:—
“The Princess Eirene Féofan will be glad to receive Captain Wylie at any time convenient to him. Let him see that his name is taken to her direct.”
She folded the paper, addressed it to the care of the British Consul-General, and beckoned to a beggar whom the absence of thecavasshad tempted to draw near the carriage. In her hand she held a gold piece.
“For Sir Frank Francis, at the Consulate of Great Britain,” she whispered in French. “This is for you, if you will take it to him.”
He looked up at her with greedy, uncomprehending eyes, and she waved him hastily away as Madame Ladoguin turned round. “The British Consul-General!” she repeated, in an agony, and saw that he understood her; but he shambled away down an alley in the opposite direction to that in which the British Consulate lay. Eirene never heard anything more of him or her message, but she realised gradually that she ought to be thankful she had lighted on a rogue too unsophisticated to double his gains by carrying it to the Scythian instead of the British Consul-General.
Akinto Eirene’s feelings at this time were those of Wylie. As soon as he heard of her arrival in Therma he tried to see her, but was assured that she was too ill to receive visitors. Losing no time, he took ship with Armitage for Morea, and paid a sufficiently exhaustive visit to the rock monasteries on that side of the frontier to make sure that his friends were not and had not been at any of them. There remained only Hadgi-Antoniou, but on trying to penetrate to it he was promptly turned back by the frontier guards, who asserted that he was attempting to lead a Greek band into Emathian territory. Returning to Therma, with the intention of reaching the monastery from thence, he found himself confronted with obstacles of every description. The Vali had become intolerably solicitous for his safety, and refused to let him go without an escort, while declining either to provide the escort or to allow Wylie to raise one for himself. It was the same with the purveyors of guides, horses, servants, all the necessaries of a traveller, but Wylie was stolidly combating one objection after another, when the distant sight one day of Eirene in the Ladoguins’ carriage gave a new direction to his thoughts. His determination to see her was, however, only the prelude to a fresh series of disappointments. Once, and only once, he obtained an entrance into the Scythian Consulate, where he was received by Madame Ladoguin, who in honeyed accents conveyed to him her Royal Highness’s thanks for his past services, and regret that she was unable to see him. Entreaties, arguments, threats, fell powerless against the armour of her suave impenetrability, and though Wylie retired with the determination to try his luck another day, he was not admitted again.
After this, he tried writing to Eirene. His first letter was answered in her name by Madame Ladoguin, and conveyed the same message that he had already received from her lips, but couched in more formal terms, as though to rebuke his presumptuous importunity. Two or three succeeding letters remained unanswered, and those that followed were returned unopened. Bribery was the next resort, and he found many itching palms among the servants and underlings of the Consulate; but it was not long before he was forced to the conclusion that none of his messages had been allowed to reach their destination.
There was a certain obstinacy in Wylie that refused to be baffled. He watched the doors of the Consulate, he laid ambushes at spots which Madame Ladoguin and her guest were likely to pass in their drives. But his adversaries were equally obstinate, and far more subtle. Nicetas Mitsopoulo dogged his movements with unfailing watchfulness, and reported daily, sometimes hourly, to his sister. False information as to the direction to be taken by the ladies in their drives was liberally supplied, and the carriage never issued from the Consulate when Wylie was on the watch. And yet his persistence was not without its effect at last. An Englishwoman would have said that it got upon Madame Ladoguin’s nerves. If this wretched Englishman continued to picket the approaches to her house in this way, some accident must at length give him the interview which he sought, for she could not always be on the watch everywhere. After mature consideration, and consultation with her brother, she took one of those bold steps which are possible only to great minds. She called on the wife of the British Consul-General and requested a private interview, in the course of which she complained to her with deep regret of the ungentlemanly conduct of one of her husband’s nationals. This person had been one of the party captured by brigands at the same time as Madame Ladoguin’s royal guest, and had so far presumed upon the circumstance as to fall violently in love with the Princess, and to persecute her, even now that she had returned to civilisation, with attentions that were as insulting as they were undesired. He waylaid her daily, bribed servants to convey amorous notes to her, and had filled her with such terror and disgust that she could scarcely bring herself to venture beyond the precincts of the Consulate.
To Lady Francis this revelation supplied at once a key to Wylie’s persistent efforts, and a new and intense interest in life. In all innocence she lent herself to Madame Ladoguin’s manipulation, moved by a sincere pity for him, coupled with a gratifying sense of personal importance in thus becoming involved in the love affairs of a royal personage. She conveyed Madame Ladoguin’s appeal to her husband, and Sir Frank, who liked Wylie and was now doubly sorry for him, requested his presence, and talked to him like a father.
“No discredit to you—most natural, I’m sure—but you see, in the case of a young lady of such high rank, this sort of thing won’t do,” was the burden of his song, and the impossibility of convincing him of the truth drove Wylie nearly frantic. Sir Frank persisted in regarding his solemn denials as attempts not to compromise the lady, and sturdily demanded why he laid wait for her and annoyed her with letters if he was not in love with her.
“But don’t you see, sir,” cried Wylie at last, “that the Princess is the last person who saw the Smiths? I only want to know from her the truth about them.”
“But you have heard that they are exploring among the monasteries. Why should you wish to discredit the Princess’s word and that of M. Kirileff?”
“Why haven’t the Smiths written to me? Why can I find out nothing about them? They must want clothes and things—and money. How can they go exploring without it?”
“I see,” said Sir Frank, beginning for the first time to regard the mystery as something more than a figment of Wylie’s brain. “But what exactly do you want to find out from the Princess?”
“I want to ask her where she left them, and in what circumstances, and how they proposed to manage.”
“But you don’t need a private interview for that.”
“I have never asked for a private interview, sir. I shall be delighted to ask her the questions in the presence of yourself and Ladoguin and the full staff of both Consulates.”
“Well, perhaps Lady Francis and Madame Ladoguin would be sufficient for the purpose, and less alarming to the young lady,” chuckled Sir Frank. “I’ll see about it, then. You leave the matter in my hands, and don’t hang about the Scythian Consulate meanwhile—you understand?”
Wylie acquiesced and departed, to rage furiously over the matter in the hearing of Armitage, who was still waiting at Therma to see him through his troubles, and incidentally to make Emathian sketches for the ‘Plastic.’ He listened placidly to Wylie’s wrathful declaration—when his fury at the absolute injustice and stupidity of the accusation allowed him intelligible utterance—that he had been made to look a fool before the whole city. Not even the suggestion of ungentlemanly behaviour appeared to sting him so deeply as the charge of having fallen in love with Eirene.
“Calm yourself,” said the artist coolly, when Wylie had anathematised all concerned to an extent that seemed to him sufficient. “You are the lion in the net; well, will you allow me the honour of being the mouse?”
“What’s this?” growled Wylie, taking up the large envelope addressed to Eirene which his friend placed before him.
“That is a letter from Princess Florence, Duchess of Inverness, introducing an English artist of the name of Armitage to the Princess Eirene Féofan, whom H.R.H. met in France in the spring.”
“And how in the world did you get to know the Duchess of Inverness?”
“I really don’t know, unless I say like the old Italian chap, ‘I also am a painter.’ I had the cheek to ask for a letter in her own writing, lest the Ladoguins should suppress it and answer it themselves, like yours. Of course, I didn’t say why I was so anxious to see Princess Eirene, but the lady-in-waiting says that the Duchess has suggested she should let me wait upon her with my sketches, and perhaps paint her portrait if she happens to want it done. So I suppose she thinks I’m hard up.”
“Well, and am I to go instead of you?” demanded Wylie.
“Oh, blessed innocence! Do you think you would ever be admitted into the Scythian Consulate if you brought a letter from the Emperor of Scythia himself? or that your appearance, and especially your eyes, aren’t known to every bootboy about the place? Of course I shall go. You don’t catch me abusing the Duchess’s kindness by sending an objectionable fire-eater like you—objectionable to Scythia, I mean—to represent me. But I shall have a try at doing your business. What is it you want exactly?”
“To see her, to know from her own lips what has become of them!” cried Wylie. “Tell her that if I still hear nothing of them I shall follow her wherever she goes until I get the truth out of her.”
“Gently. This is eminently a case for the use of guile. Now let us devise a scheme. You must remember that it’s quite possible you won’t be allowed to see her even now. Let us try if we can’t arrange it so that I may manage to get hold of the needed information in any case.”
They laid their plans, and in due time Armitage delivered his letter at the Consulate, where it caused great searchings of heart. As he had anticipated, it proved impossible to treat an introduction from the art-loving British Princess in the cavalier fashion which was good enough for Wylie’s notes, and he was gratified by an intimation that the Princess Eirene would receive him the next day. When he presented himself with his portfolio of sketches, it was no surprise to him to be received first by Madame Ladoguin, who desired to impress upon him, with an unspeakably frank air of taking him into her inmost confidence, that he must not mention in her Royal Highness’s hearing the name of Captain Wylie. He had probably learnt from the rumours of the city of that person’s extraordinary behaviour with regard to the Princess, but he could not possibly guess what pain it had given her. Armitage faced the ambassador with a mien as open as her own.
“Thanks so much for telling me,” he said, in his boyish way. “I don’t suppose I should, in any case, have mentioned him unless the Princess had done it first, but now I’ll be extra careful.”
When he was ushered into Eirene’s presence, he caught a momentary look of disappointment on her face, a glance to see whether any one was following him, which told him in a moment that she had been cherishing the wild hope of seeing Wylie in disguise. The discovery took away half the difficulty of his task, by resolving at once the question whether she was or was not a willing accomplice in the conspiracy of silence. The weary languor of her tones when she asked him where he had studied, and how the Duchess had become acquainted with him, was welcome, as calculated to lull the suspicions of Mme. Ladoguin. It was quickly evident, however, that no temporary assurance was to be allowed to blind that lady’s vigilance. She stood between Eirene and Armitage, and handed to the former each sketch as it was taken from the portfolio. It was not until the entire contents had passed through her hands that she retreated to the end of the table, and sat down with some fancy work. Armitage observed that the work was not of a very engrossing nature, for while her hands were busy with it, her eyes were free to roam as before. Eirene was still looking through the sketches, now guaranteed harmless by her guardian herself.
“It has been a great pleasure to me to see your work,” she said graciously to the painter. “I only wish you had brought more portraits. The Duchess of Inverness says you have painted a half-length of the Duke for her.”
“I have a photograph of it here, ma’am,” and Armitage took the card from a pocket in the portfolio, contriving rather ostentatiously to exhibit first one side and then the other to the vigilant gaze of Mme. Ladoguin, somewhat in the manner of the conjurer who desires to assure his audience that there is no deception.
“Yes, I like that very much,” said Eirene, after studying the photograph carefully; “but I have never seen the Duke—or indeed any of the people you have shown me. Have you no portrait of any one I know?”
“Only one, I’m afraid, ma’am—a sketch of Captain Wylie,” with a deprecating glance at Madame Ladoguin.
“I must have missed that. Let me see it, please.” Armitage produced the portrait from under the others, where Madame Ladoguin had dexterously slipped it instead of passing it on to Eirene. It was a pencil sketch, worked up with a good deal of care. One foot impatiently advanced, Wylie seemed almost to be stepping out of the picture, with a look of reckless resolution on his face.
“Oh, this is lifelike. How well I know that expression!” said Eirene, with a smile and a sigh over the memories called up by the portrait. “But the picture should be coloured. Nothing can do justice to Captain Wylie that does not show the colour of his eyes.”
“This is merely a rough sketch, ma’am. I happened to catch him in an attitude I liked. I tell him I shall work it up into a picture of him terrorising an army with a riding-whip,à laGeneral Gordon.”
“You will be obliged to alter the background, then. Why place a soldier in such sylvan surroundings?”
“Oh, that was a bit of woodland I wanted to get in somewhere,” said the artist frankly. “I was rather proud of it, because I thought I had got the look of that particular kind of bush rather well. You don’t like it, ma’am?” with some disappointment. “Perhaps if you saw it in a better light——?” He moved towards the window, and Eirene turned in her chair.
“I see you have made him sign it. What a bold hand he writes!” she observed easily. “Yes, Mr Armitage, I think I did you an injustice. The growth of that particular shrub must be very difficult to render. It is the sweet-scented plant that grows in thickets, is it not?”
She spoke lightly, almost at random, for Armitage had placed the sketch in her hands upside-down, and all the shading of the bushes was discernible as writing.
“You must manage to receive me. When can I see you? Where are the Smiths? I am certain there has been foul play. I have been trying in every possible way for weeks to get an interview with you, but have been assured that you refused it. Only tell me where Smith and his sister are, and how to help them, and I will give you no more trouble. You cannot be so heartless as to abandon them to no one knows what fate.—James Graham Wylie.”
“You must manage to receive me. When can I see you? Where are the Smiths? I am certain there has been foul play. I have been trying in every possible way for weeks to get an interview with you, but have been assured that you refused it. Only tell me where Smith and his sister are, and how to help them, and I will give you no more trouble. You cannot be so heartless as to abandon them to no one knows what fate.—James Graham Wylie.”
“When was this taken? Captain Wylie looks thinner than when I saw him,” Eirene went on.
“Two days ago, ma’am.”
“Two days ago? but not here? He is not in Therma? I have several times said that I wished to receive Captain Wylie, to thank him for his services to me, but I was always assured he had returned to India. What does this mean?”
“He is staying at my hotel, ma’am, and I know he is most anxious to wait on you.” Armitage cast a glance at Madame Ladoguin which blended cleverly perplexity and a request for pardon, and she responded to it.
“I am grieved to tell you, madame, that since Captain Wylie’s return to Therma, his conduct has been such as to call down the reprobation even of his own Consul. The kindest thing is to attribute it to a disordered brain. I can’t enter into the details, but it is absolutely impossible for you to receive him.”
“I see,” said Eirene, with a slight frown. “I must ask you, Mr Armitage, to inform Captain Wylie that it is not convenient to me to receive him.”
“It is not for me to question your decision, ma’am,” said the artist, “but I think I could explain things to your satisfaction if you would allow it?” She made no sign, and he continued bluntly, “I fancy, ma’am, that my friend could dispense with paying his respects if you would be good enough to send him the information he wants about Mr and Miss Smith.”
Eirene raised her eyebrows. “I thought it was understood that when I parted from them they were in perfect health?” she said.
“And cheerfulness, madame,” put in Madame Ladoguin. “You have mentioned to me more than once Miss Smith’s extreme cheerfulness when you quitted her.”
“Yes,” said Eirene, with a little smile, “I rather resented her cheerfulness, for I did not like her staying behind, and had exhausted all my powers of persuasion to induce her to return with me to Therma, but in vain. I am afraid that is all I can tell you, Mr Armitage. And now about your own work. Could you undertake a portrait of me—now, while I am still here?”
“I should be highly honoured, ma’am.”
“Then let us decide——” began Eirene, but Madame Ladoguin interposed.
“Dearest Princess, pardon me, but what will Dr Simovics say? He ordered you complete rest from anything that might try the nerves, and you have no idea of the strain of sitting for a portrait. If you like, I can send and ask his advice, but I fear I know what his answer will be.”
“So do I,” said Eirene resentfully. “This means that I must give up my portrait, then. But I must have a picture of yours,” turning to Armitage. “I wonder”—she took up some of the sketches—“whether you would object to try a view of Hadgi-Antoniou from my description merely? I like the pictures of the Morean monasteries extremely, but as I have never seen them they do not appeal to me as Hadgi-Antoniou does.”
“I will try my best, ma’am; but I fear the picture would not be very satisfactory. If you could give me just a rough sketch of your own——?”
“Unfortunately I can’t draw at all. But I suppose I could show you roughly what it is like. I should like a picture of the church, but I know it would be hopeless for me to try to do that. The view must be from the ground below. Now you must not laugh at my crude efforts,” as Armitage supplied her with a pencil and an unused sheet of paper. “The rock goes up, up, nearly straight, like this, and the monastery is at the very top, hanging over in some places. This is the rope and net by which visitors are drawn up. These things which look like caterpillars on the face of the rock are ladders. The monks must have some more to bridge the gaps, but I never saw them in use, and I don’t know where they keep them. Here at the edge of the summit are the monks’ gardens. Don’t expect me to draw bushes as you do.” She was scribbling with intense energy, and Armitage, looking over her, read—
“They are here—Z. in pilgrims’ rooms, M. in underground dungeon. Monks are divided into two parties, Greek and Thracian. Hegoumenos and Greeks friendly but timid. Thracians under Scythian orders. Greeks will yield to definite order from Œcumenical Patriarch for release of prisoners. Be prepared to bribe Thracians heavily, and to threaten, or even use, force. Be secret, or prisoners may be removed.”
“They are here—Z. in pilgrims’ rooms, M. in underground dungeon. Monks are divided into two parties, Greek and Thracian. Hegoumenos and Greeks friendly but timid. Thracians under Scythian orders. Greeks will yield to definite order from Œcumenical Patriarch for release of prisoners. Be prepared to bribe Thracians heavily, and to threaten, or even use, force. Be secret, or prisoners may be removed.”
“This is an overhanging forest, ma’am, I presume?” asked Armitage. Eirene laughed consciously.
“Oh no, only bushes, and in some places grass.”
“Then—pardon me—I think, perhaps, this kind of touch would express it better.” He took the pencil, and wrote—
“Are you in danger? Can we help you first?”
“Are you in danger? Can we help you first?”
“I think I shall get you to give me some drawing lessons,” said Eirene admiringly. “Is this it?” and she wrote—
“You can do nothing for me. I shall be taken back to Scythia. Show disappointment about the portrait.”
“You can do nothing for me. I shall be taken back to Scythia. Show disappointment about the portrait.”
“If I might venture to offer a suggestion, ma’am, bushes don’t generally wear their branches on the outside,” said Armitage drily, taking the pencil again, and covering Eirene’s writing with light and dark shading bearing a sufficient resemblance to foliage.
“I really must have some lessons,” said she, with renewed admiration. “Chariclea, you are not to tell me that Dr Simovics would object to that.”
“Alas, dearest Princess!” lamented Mme. Ladoguin, who was firm in a not unnatural determination to save herself the wear and tear of the perpetual surveillance any further visits from the artist would entail. “The doctor was most particular in ordering complete rest for mind and eye and hand.”
“If I might have the honour of painting your portrait, ma’am,” ventured Armitage, “I am sure I could manage so that you would find the sittings very little strain. Once we had settled on a characteristic attitude, you could move about as you liked.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be so bad,” said Eirene triumphantly. “You hear, Chariclea?”
“How unfortunate I am, compelled to represent the doctor, and bear the odium of his measures!” cried Mme. Ladoguin distractedly. “I can only say as I did before, let us ask him, madame.”
“I know what that means,” said Eirene, with a pout. “A princess in disgrace is a very helpless person, Mr Armitage.”
“You don’t know what a disappointment it is to me, ma’am,” he answered, while Madame Ladoguin made a deprecating movement. “I had hoped so much from the Duchess’s introduction.”
“When you see her you must tell her that it was not my fault,” said Eirene, scribbling vigorously. “The rock is grey, the walls are white, the roofs red tiles, the bushes grey-green, the sky very blue. I have written the colour on each, so that you may remember. There, Chariclea, what do you think of it?”
Madame Ladoguin viewed the work of art with a caustic eye.
“Indeed, madame, I fear I should hardly recognise Hadgi-Antoniou from your picture of it.”
“Then you must make it right, Mr Armitage,” said Eirene, rising. “Cure its defects instead of mine, if you please.”
“Nowthat you have your information,” said Armitage, when he had recounted to Wylie what had passed during his audience of Eirene, “what do you think of doing?”
“There can’t be much doubt about that. We must go to Czarigrad and get hold of the Patriarch. Panagiotis must go, I suppose, as he is the only one likely to have influence in that quarter, and I must go to keep him up to the mark when he gets discouraged.”
“You won’t exactly publish abroad the object of your journey, I suppose?”
“What do you take me for? We go to Czarigrad to stir up the Embassy, of course.”
“And what is my part in the programme?”
“To stay here and keep an eye on Princess Eirene, I presume. She may manage to send us some further particulars. You are sure she is staunch?”
“Not a doubt of it, and wild to give what help she can, I should say. All right, I’ll look out. But how if at the same time I make unostentatious preparations for a visit to Hadgi-Antoniou, for the purpose of painting a picture of it for the devout and orthodox Imperial Princess Eirene Theophanis? She gave me a commission for the outside, and said she would like one of the church as well. They will probably grant me a passport all right, if you are known to be safe at Czarigrad, for it won’t do to keep all Europeans away from Hadgi-Antoniou, or people will begin to think there’s something wrong there. Sir Frank will back me up, too, when he has got you off his mind. Then you must cover up your tracks at Czarigrad, and come across, preferably by sea, and join me without passing through Therma. There’s a little port called Myriaki where we could rendezvous comfortably, and at the worst I can leave one of my servants behind and take you in his place.”
“You must have done a good deal of thinking between the Scythian Consulate and here,” said Wylie drily.
“Ah, you don’t know how my brain works when it’s put to it. I’m bound to see this thing through now. How are you off for the wherewithal?”
“Oh, the Professor has just come into another quarter’s income, and he’s quite chirpy.”
“That’s all right for Czarigrad, but at Hadgi-Antoniou we may have to outbid the Scythian agent. I can raise anything up to a thousand—shall I do it?”
“I suppose it would be as well,” said Wylie unwillingly. “It sounds awfully odd to hear you talking about ‘we,’” he explained, rather ashamed of his coldness. “I seem to have let you in for a good deal, when you remember that the Smiths have nothing to do with you.”
“Well, for the matter of that, they have nothing to do with you either, have they? It was a mere accident of association that brought you together. Of course, you went through a lot in their company, but I hope I may do what little I can to help an English lady in distress, though I haven’t had the honour of being introduced to her.”
“Right you are! You must think me a surly brute. I’m glad you have pulled me up—honestly I am. I suppose I might have gone on to wish the Smiths not to be rescued unless I had the chief hand in it.”
“You shall have the chief hand in it, so far as it depends on me,” said Armitage heartily. “After all you have done, it would be a black shame to rob you of the honour. I’m under your orders, remember, and you may be sure I shall say so. I’ll get things ready here, while you do the Czarigrad part of the business, and then we’ll meet and achieve our finalcoupin company.”
There was no hesitation in Wylie’s agreement, but during the next week or two he was inclined to consider that Armitage had chosen conspicuously the easier task. Nothing but iron resolution on his part would have dragged the Professor to Czarigrad, and kept him there when he had arrived. His dislike of approaching the Patriarch was so marked that Wylie began to suspect that the tales he had heard of the secret organisation of Greek bands in Emathia were true, and that the Professor intended to employ them to rescue Maurice by force, thus committing him to their cause, and them to his. But since the Professor vouchsafed no account of his plans, Wylie could only proceed with his own, which were not rendered easier of execution by the reluctance of the Patriarch and hisentourageto do their part. There could be little doubt that Scythian agents had been beforehand with him, for it required weary days of waiting, and persistent refusals to depart, before he could gain a sight of any one in authority. By this time Professor Panagiotis seemed to have made up his mind to work heartily with him, and they went together to the Patriarchal palace, where they were received by a kind of domestic chaplain, or clerical private secretary, a dark-robed, high-capped monk with a keen, astute face. Having heard their request, the secretary addressed himself to the Professor, apparently regarding him as the more reasonable being of the two.
“If you realised the state of the community at Hadgi-Antoniou, you would know that what you ask is impossible,” he said. “Since the first Thracian monks were unfortunately admitted, under an agreement that their number was never to exceed one-fourth of the whole, they have steadily aimed at dominating the monastery. The agreement is still nominally in force, but certainly half the brethren must be Thracian, and in a year or two they will swamp the Greek element altogether. At present the community remains faithful to the Patriarchate because the Hegoumenos and other officials are Greeks, but should anything precipitate a collision between the two bodies, it is almost certain that they would be out-voted. To avoid such a collision is our perpetual aim. How, then, can you expect us, for the sake of a couple of unknown English tourists, to bring about the loss of an important outpost?”
“You would wink at murder, if you might keep your monastery?” asked Wylie. The monk shrugged his shoulders.
“Why don’t you apply to your Embassy?” he asked.
“Because we know that before any demand for the release of the prisoners could be made effective, they would be carried away somewhere else, or handed over to one of the brigand bands to be murdered.”
“We are alike, then,” smiled the secretary. “You will not do what you might, for fear of the consequences. Neither will we. There is no question of any immediate danger to your friends, I believe? Why trouble about them, then?”
Wylie rose angrily, but Professor Panagiotis laid a hand upon his sleeve. “We have not taken into consideration the fact that the prisoners are not unknown English tourists, but the heirs of the blessed John Theophanis,” he said.
“The fact is curious, but no more,” said the secretary, with a wooden face. “Living, as we do, under the tolerant and enlightened rule of the Grand Seignior, survivals of the kind you mention have no interest for us.”
“In certain eventualities, it might be inconvenient for the Patriarchate if the heir of John Theophanis had a just cause of resentment against it,” pursued the Professor.
“It is not for us to consider possible eventualities, but to maintain truth and loyalty in the present,” was the answer, which filled Wylie with helpless fury. The Professor remained calm.
“Very well: we will consider the present alone. The only other heir is in the hands of the Scythians, pledged supporters of the schismatical Exarchate. Is it or is it not a matter of importance that a nearer heir should exist, attached by bonds of gratitude and affection to the Patriarchate, and capable of being brought forward whenever Scythia shows signs of asserting the claims of her candidate?”
“This sounds more businesslike,” said the secretary approvingly. “You can answer for the young man’s strict Orthodoxy?”
“I have myself instructed him, and the experiences he has since undergone at the hands of the schismatics can hardly have attracted him to their cause. If the Patriarch intervened to rescue him, it would bind the youth to him indissolubly.”
“The idea is good, but there are difficulties in the way of carrying it out. To give you an order directing the release of the prisoners would probably lead to their disappearance—we are surrounded by spies—and would certainly lose us the monastery. It must be in general terms. But even then you are too well known,” to the Professor, “and I have been warned against this English gentleman, your companion, so that he also will be watched for. You must find some trustworthy agent, who may receive the Patriarchal letter, and do your business by its aid.”
“Make it out in the name of Harold Armitage, an English painter, who is commissioned to obtain views of the monastery for the Princess Eirene Theophanis,” said Wylie.
“The Scythian candidate? You are ingenious, monsieur, to make the devout purpose of the Princess contribute to her undoing. Well, the letter shall be prepared, and all possible assistance desired for Mr Armitage in his pious task. The rest of the business you must manage for yourselves.”
He bowed them out, and as soon as they had crossed the threshold Wylie expressed his candid opinion of the Patriarchal surroundings. The Professor smiled grimly.
“When the Morean insurrection broke out, the Patriarch of the day was hanged at his own church door,” he said. “We are not all ready to be martyrs nowadays.”
Wylie said nothing, for the explanation was evidently all-sufficient in the Professor’s eyes, but he wondered how much affection and gratitude Maurice was expected to feel towards the Patriarchate, and whether too much had not been promised in his name.
The Patriarchal letter arrived next day, its preparation having been quickened by a discreet distribution of gifts among the persons concerned, and Wylie was able to carry out his plans. The Professor was to remain some days in Czarigrad, visiting the British Embassy daily, and apparently devoting all his energies to obtaining the release of the prisoners by its means, while Wylie took his departure in a small fast sailing-vessel for Myriaki. The boat was chartered by the Professor exclusively for this service, and Wylie suspected that it was not the first time he had employed it on secret errands, so knowing did the captain show himself with respect to ships and customs-stations which it was advisable to avoid. Arriving off Myriaki late one evening, Wylie, standing in the bows, raised and dipped a light three times. The signal was answered from the shore, and presently Armitage came off, brimming over with excitement.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You are mycavass, Spiridion Istriotis, and I have brought you a suit of his clothes. The real Spiro is remaining in the seclusion of the paternal mansion, on full wages, until I send him word. You had better get the things on before coming on shore, hadn’t you? Your cabin is large enough to allow of that, though it certainly wouldn’t hold us both at once.”
“What about the passport?” demanded Wylie, as he made the change rapidly in his little shelter under the half-deck, while Armitage leaned against the bulkhead outside.
“Oh, that’s the greatest joke! Theteskerehthey’ve given me would apply to you, or your friend Smith, or any mortal man, just as well as to me. I believe they keep a form in stock with the description of an ideal Englishman—tall, fair hair, blue eyes, and so on—and simply copy it. It will really fit you best, for the eyes will be right, at any rate. What coloured eyes has Smith?”
“I don’t know—ordinary, I suppose,” growled Wylie, with whom the point was a sore one.
“Well, it can’t be more unlike him than it is to me, so we ought all to be able to use the same passport, if we can bribe the police to look away while we pass it from one to the other. But you’ll go as Spiro, of course, so you won’t want it. Ready? I sculled myself off, to the great disapproval of the seafaring population on the quay, because I had something I wanted to say without eavesdroppers.”
Wylie’s possessions were transferred to the boat, and he bade farewell to the captain of the vessel, arranging with him to lie off Myriaki for the next fortnight. In the boat he took the oars, and Armitage pushed off. When they were about half-way to the shore, the artist produced a small but weighty parcel contained in a chamois-leather bag.
“Put that in the safest and best-hidden pocket you can find in Spiro’s garments,” he said. “It has two hundred and fifty pounds in English gold in it, and I have another just the same. I have scarcely dared to sleep since I left Therma. The rest of my money is in notes and cash of various fancy currencies peculiar to this delectable peninsula, and is contained in an imposing cash-box, which all my servants have been taught to regard with profound respect. But I thought it might be desirable to have a secret store in an attractive form, and I’m thankful to shift half the responsibility—and weight—off on you.”
“Good man!” said Wylie, concealing the bag inside his shirt, and securing it with his girdle, and they rowed to the quay, where Armitage was quartered in a villainous little Greek inn, having chosen it that he might be able to keep watch for the vessel. He had allowed it to become known that he was expecting the arrival of a special messenger with a letter from the Patriarch to assist him in his work at Hadgi-Antoniou, and Wylie was an object of intense veneration to the Greeks of the port as he swaggered in front of Armitage, clearing the way as the absent Spiro would have done. A number of the notables of the place visited them after supper, anxious to enjoy the honour of beholding the outside of the Patriarchal letter, and one or two of the chief of them were allowed the supreme distinction of kissing it. In the morning they escorted the letter and its bearers some distance on their way, and parted from them the best of friends, amid much festive firing of guns.
Armitage had neglected no precaution for ensuring the success of his journey that the wisdom of many advisers in Therma could suggest to him. The four men whom he called servants were really guards, Mohammedan Illyrians, armed to the teeth, and faithful unto death until the job for which they were engaged was over, after which they would be quite ready to murder their late employer at the bidding of a new one. Their presence ensured a friendly reception whenever Roumis were met with, and the unofficial rulers of the country were recognised by a letter to the principal brigand chief in the district, who rejoiced in the name of Fido—a letter of safe-conduct obtained, for a consideration, from Fido’s accredited agent in Therma. Armitage had not ventured to make any preparations that might suggest his intention of rescuing the prisoners, but he calculated that by the time they reached Hadgi-Antoniou the stores would have diminished so much that there would be a mule for Zoe to ride coming back, and he had laid in a lavish provision of scented soap, handkerchiefs, and other minor luxuries, ostensibly for his own benefit.
The journey proved to be uneventful, for such trifling incidents as the frequent stopping of the cavalcade by bands of armed men could not be considered events when the exhibition—with due discrimination—of the Patriarchal letter, the brigand’s safe-conduct, or the Roumi passport, according to circumstances, sufficed to close them. One of Armitage’s precautions had been to provide a large store of sugar-candy and other sweets, and the unfriendliness of the most ferocious brigand or densest commissary of police was never proof against a gift from it. The arrival at Hadgi-Antoniou was the close of a triumphal progress, and Armitage and Wylie looked up at the monastery on its pillar of rock, and wondered whether the rest of their work was to be as easy.
The firing of the rifles of the escort brought the monks, as usual, to their watch-tower, and questions and answers were bellowed up and down the cliff. The news that the English lord was the bearer of a letter from the Œcumenical Patriarch caused great excitement, and the net was let down at once. Wylie went up in it, lest the monks should refuse to admit him if Armitage went first. He was grabbed and hauled in as the prisoners had been, and while he waited for his friend to make the ascent he examined the tower and capstan with a keen eye. Armitage having been landed, rather pale and uncomfortable-looking, they were led first into the church, where the monks bowed to the ikons and chanted with extreme rapidity a very brief service, which might have been intended either as a welcome to the visitors or a thanksgiving for their safe arrival. Wylie accepted it gratefully as the latter. He was once more within a few yards of his friends, after their long separation.
The old Hegoumenos, who had sent an apology for not welcoming the strangers immediately, was awaiting them in the guest-room, with his monks assembled round him. Armitage presented the Patriarch’s letter, which the Hegoumenos kissed and laid to his forehead, and handed to Papa Athanasios to read. The artist’s devout intention of painting pictures of the monastery for the illustrious Princess who had so lately been their guest was announced to the brethren with high commendation, and after the letter had been handed round for them to kiss, they retired. The last, and apparently the most reluctant to quit the room, was a grey-bearded man with a look of authority, who had been watching Wylie narrowly. When he had gone, a young and rather foolish-looking monk came back furtively and peered at the visitors, and they heard him saying something to his fellows outside. Papa Athanasios looked annoyed, but he also cast an inquisitive glance at Wylie.
“What are they saying?” asked Armitage.
“Oh, our younger brethren are foolish—they are like children, unaccustomed to strangers—there is a silly saying among them——” said the monk incoherently. “They do not often see any one like the English lord’scavass.”
“But what is the saying? Is it an old one?”
“No, not very—in fact, it is only a few weeks old. The Scythian lord who came to escort the Princess to Therma bade one of our brethren beware of the man with blue eyes, and they think they have found him. But this is foolishness. The Lord Hegoumenos desires to know what else he can do for you, since the sacred letter of the Universal Patriarch orders him to pleasure you not only in your devout purpose, but in other matters which you will confide to his ear.”
But when Armitage had asked for the release of the two English prisoners, Papa Athanasios and the Hegoumenos looked at one another, puzzled, timid, and anxious. Then they began to explain in low tones that if it had depended on them, the prisoners would never have been detained, but that M. Kirileff had arranged matters with Papa Demetri, the treasurer of the monastery, and the only Thracian who had as yet attained office. Papa Demetri was a most wonderful treasurer, his two superiors confessed reluctantly; everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, and the monastic revenues had never been so elastic. The church was being entirely redecorated—this merely meant that the frescoes and ikons were being painted over in exactly the same forms and colours as before—and even the Greek brethren would support him through thick and thin for making such a thing possible. The reason for the wonderful advance of the Thracian element in the monastery was now clear to the listeners, but they could not bring themselves to point out to the two old monks that they were—however delicately the transaction might be disguised—selling their nationality for Scythian gold.
“Papa Demetri must be getting something out of Kirileff for this business,” said Armitage to Wylie. “We must outbid him. Did the Scythian traveller make any gift to the monastery?” he asked of Papa Athanasios.
“He promised a very great gift, through Brother Demetri”—the monk named a sum which worked out at about four hundred pounds. “The brethren have all been rejoicing because it will restore theikonostasis, and complete the renewing of the church.”
“If he only promised it, whether it was through prudence or because he hadn’t it with him, it’s a most lucky thing for us,” said Wylie. “Offer them the five hundred down if they’ll give the prisoners up at once.”
But this was much too summary a suggestion. The matter must be laid before the monks in full conclave, it appeared, and they must choose between five hundred pounds certain and a possible four hundred. Wylie suggested that it might make the choice easier if they were not asked actually to release the prisoners, but only to leave their cells unlocked and unguarded, and the ladders on the face of the rock available for use. The capstan he did not venture to advise, since no one in the monastery could remain ignorant when it was being used. The idea seemed to remove much of the two old men’s alarm, and the Hegoumenos announced quite cheerfully that he would call a conclave for the next day to consider the generous offer of the English lord.
“Can’t you show us where the prisoners are?” asked Wylie of Papa Athanasios, as they paused in the courtyard, after leaving the guest-room, to allow Armitage to make a hasty sketch of a corner of the church. The old monk had already shepherded back the supposedcavass, gently but firmly, from so many unauthorised excursions into other buildings and courtyards, that he began to think M. Kirileff’s warning not uncalled for, and he answered with some asperity—
“The lodging of the monastery’s guests is no concern of yours.”
“At least tell us how they are,” entreated Wylie, and Papa Athanasios answered more gently—
“They are both in good health. I myself have allowed the youth to walk in the courtyard at hours when Brother Demetri thought him safely locked unto his cell, so eagerly did he entreat leave to smell the air, and I have talked much with him at other times. The girl is left to the charge of a devout woman, who has been much edified to behold her continually rapt in contemplation, so that, had she been Orthodox, she would have imagined her to be a seer of holy visions. One thing perturbed our sister greatly—that her prisoner made many strange signs on her wall with a nail, which she feared might be unholy spells. So much was she troubled, that on a certain feast-day—was it Holy Trinity or Holy John? I forget— I allowed the girl also to walk in the garden, and examined the marks for myself. But there was nothing evil in them; they were such foolish and meaningless scrawls as might be made by one distraught, and I quieted our sister’s mind with this assurance.”
Armitage was laughing involuntarily, but to Wylie the thought of Zoe enjoying a glimpse of liberty on Trinity Sunday, unconscious that her scribbles were being scrutinised for evidences of witchcraft, was pure pathos, and he turned away abruptly.
Theconclave was held, and despite the strenuous efforts of Papa Demetri, the monks decided by a large majority to accept Armitage’s offer, and wink at the escape of the prisoners. Had M. Kirileff paid down his two thousand five hundred roubles, the monastery would have been bound in honour to fulfil his conditions, as the aged Papa Apostolos pertinently observed, but since he had merely promised it, and had not so far fulfilled his promise, it would be folly to refuse an additional sum which would allow the silver-gilt haloes of the saints on theikonostasisto be replaced by plates of pure gold. And, after all, they were not asked to promote the prisoners’ escape; it was merely a matter of leaving the ladders down for a few nights instead of drawing them up, and of a temporary mislaying of his keys by Papa Athanasios. It was also arranged—the suggestion came from Brother Nikola, the vacuous-faced young monk who had identified Wylie—that the escape should not take place until Armitage had finished his picture of the church, lest the Princess Eirene should be disappointed of her devout desires. The good news was carried by Papa Athanasios to Armitage, who was diligently at work in the courtyard, and he conveyed it to Wylie, whose indiscreet behaviour the day before, coupled with M. Kirileff’s warning, had caused him to be denied further admittance. He bore the monks no ill-will for his exclusion, since Brother Evangelos, who was in charge of the ladders, was authorised to show him how they were managed, and he spent the afternoon of the day of the conclave in crawling up and down the cliff-face like a fly on a wall. The next evening, however, when Armitage descended in the net after a long day’s work, Wylie met him and drew him aside from their camp.
“Those venerable frauds at the top there are up to some mischief,” he said.
“How? what do you mean?” asked Armitage.
“Fellow came down the ladders this morning with a basket—apparently a lay-brother going to the village for provisions. It struck me he seemed to look about him a good deal, as if he was afraid of being followed, so I promptly followed him, stalking him through the brushwood on hands and knees. It was just as I expected. When he had got well out of sight of our camp, he put down his basket, tucked up his gown, and scampered off as hard as he could in the opposite direction from the village. I tried to follow him, but as I didn’t dare to stand upright he distanced me easily, so I took cover near his basket to see when he came back. He was about an hour gone, then he came and picked up his basket again, and went off to the village as jauntily as you please.”
“But where do you think he went?”
“Clearly to some one who acts as go-between for Papa Demetri and the Scythians—probably a brigand. The village is Greek, you see, so they would have to look elsewhere. Of course, the plan is to fetch Kirileff back with larger offers before we can get away. I distrusted that stipulation about your finishing the picture, you know. When are you likely to get it done?”
“Not for a good many years, if the monks are to be the judges. They expect a regular Byzantine arrangement, showing every stone in the walls and every tile that’s missing from the roof. They aren’t educated up to modern methods, you see, and I’m putting as much detail into it as I conscientiously can, just to please them. Still, with another day’s work I ought to be able to produce a daub that will pass, at any rate.”
“That’s all right. We couldn’t start to-night, anyhow. I am going up the ladders when it’s dark, so as to know my way about them. I couldn’t undertake to get Miss Smith down without. It’s a bad enough climb to take a woman anyhow, and in the dark——! But perhaps that’s just as well, since she won’t see what it’s like.”
“I wish I had your cool head. I suffer agonies every time I go up and down in the net, even. By the bye, to avoid further artistic controversy with the brethren, can you make a drawing, roughly to scale, of the place for me to-morrow, from the ground, and jot down the colours, so that I can paint from it afterwards? They’re so full of the church that they haven’t remembered the outside view yet, but Papa Demetri is quite capable of making use of it to delay us.”
“All right. It’ll be very rough, but that won’t signify. Meanwhile, you tip the wink to Papa Athanasios to lose his keys before locking-up time to-morrow night, will you?”
* * * * * * *
Only one incident occurred to trouble the conspirators during the following day, and this was a mishap to Brother Evangelos, who, in passing through a dark passage, tripped over one of the crutches on which the monks supported themselves during the long services, and sprained his ankle so severely that he could not leave his cell. But Wylie had ascended and descended the ladders safely during the night, and was confident that he knew his way from one to the other, so that there seemed no reason for delay. Papa Athanasios had warned Maurice to be ready when thesemantronsounded for midnight service, and the judicious gift of a rosary from the Holy Mountain had induced old Marigo to convey the same message to Zoe. A dark robe and high cap, such as were worn by the monks, had also been smuggled into the cell of each, in case any belated brother, hurrying into church, should run across the two strangers.
Wylie was half-way up the ladders when the clangour of thesemantronsmote upon his ear, and he climbed the rest of the way in entire forgetfulness of the perilous nature of his path. The sound was still reverberating through the monastery when he reached the tower to which the ladders led, and he could see the last-awakened among the monks scurrying through the courtyard. Presently the noise died away, the brother who had been wielding the mallet followed the rest into church, and Wylie went softly across to the quarters of the Hegoumenos and laid upon his divan the second packet containing two hundred and fifty pounds, the first having been handed over as soon as the result of the conclave was declared. Then he returned to the shelter of his tower, and waited with beating heart, not daring to make his presence known, even when two figures appeared round the end of the church, for in the monkish garb it was impossible to distinguish who they were. But they came unhesitatingly straight to the tower, and stepping out from the doorway to meet them, he grasped a hand of each and led the way to the ladder, sternly silencing their eager questions. Without giving them time to consider the means by which they were to descend, he went a few steps down, with his face to the ladder, then told Zoe to follow him, and guided her feet to the steps, which were by no means evenly placed. Maurice came last, well behind Zoe, that she might have full liberty to cling to the sides of the ladder, and thus they worked their way down, the cold sweat standing on Wylie’s brow. The camp fire looked so small and so distant below—almost as distant as the great clear stars, which seemed unnaturally bright in that cloudless atmosphere. Had Maurice alone been in question, he would have faced the adventure with a laugh, but that Zoe should be hanging between heaven and earth on that rickety ladder, with the night-wind whistling round her, was something unspeakably horrible. His feet seemed like lead, and he could hardly feel the next rung as he moved down to it, but Zoe distinguished no trembling as he guided her slowly lower and lower. She followed his muttered directions as if in a dream, for the imaginary world in which she had spent the greater part of her captivity still lay about her, and it was as though her mind received and her body obeyed his orders, while her real self was not there at all.
At last they came to a ledge of rock, on which Wylie allowed a rest from sheer necessity, for he found himself forced to cling to the ladder even when standing on firm ground. But no sooner had Zoe’s feet touched the rock than an exclamation from her turned his nerves to iron again.
“What’s that?” she cried. “There’s some one here! Something high and dark went round the corner.”
Neither Wylie nor Maurice, with their faces to the ladder, had seen anything, but she had turned her head to see where Wylie was, and she persisted that in that moment some one who had been standing close to him had vanished. Peering round the corner, they could see nothing, but Wylie drew a revolver as he led the way along the path which formed the link between this ladder and the next. Still there was no one to be seen, and he returned the weapon to his sash before stooping to feel for the head of the ladder. All along the brink he groped without success before the truth dawned upon him. The ladder was not there. It was not a very long one, but it crossed slantwise a deep chasm in the rock, which offered an insurmountable obstacle to any one trying to ascend the cliff without it.
“The ladder is gone,” he said, turning to the other two, and hoping that his voice did not betray his feelings. “We must let ourselves down. Take off those monks’ gowns you have on. They will have to do for ropes.”
They obeyed, and Wylie slit the long shapeless garments in two from neck to hem with his dagger, then tied the halves together by their huge sleeves, and the two gowns to one another. “I’ll go first,” he said, “and you had better both hang on to the rope, for it’ll be a big strain.”
They obeyed, not understanding how he meant to get across; but to their horror, when he had let himself down over the edge, the rope began to oscillate violently. He had fastened the end round his waist, so as to leave his hands free, and he was doing his utmost to swing across the chasm. Again and again his efforts fell short, and he swung back bruised; but at last, with a wild clutch, he caught hold of the bushes growing on the other side, and hauled himself up.
“Now, Miss Smith,” he said breathlessly, “recall your gym. days at school. Do you think you can come down this rope hand over hand?”
Zoe would have died sooner than confess to inability or fear at that moment, though the clumsy knotted cable had little resemblance to a gymnasium-rope. “Rather!” she said promptly, and Wylie twisted the end he held round and round, so as to make the bridge as strong as possible. Sliding down it was out of the question, on account of the knots, and she saw that she must work her way along. Maurice put his end of the rope under the largest stone he could find, as an added security against slipping, then, bracing himself firmly, held it as taut as he could. Zoe gripped it with hands and feet, thankful for the flexible moccasins, which were so much more serviceable than shoes, and dropped slowly from knot to knot, descending diagonally until Wylie, standing on his end of the rope, was able to catch her in his arms. She stood aside, panting, while he asked Maurice whether the stone was large enough to balance his weight.
“Nothing like,” was the reply. “I shall jump. In case I miss, I shall tie the rope round my waist, and you must pull me up. Zoe had better hold on to it as well, for fear the jerk might drag you over. Stand clear.”
Wylie and Zoe stood well back, and waited for the shock, but Maurice had judged his distance so well that though he did not land on the rock where they were standing, he was able to grasp the bushes which grew below it, and before they could give way, Wylie had him by the hand. The bushes afforded sufficient foothold to enable him to raise himself over the edge of the rock, and winding the rope round him in case it should be needed again, he followed the other two to the head of the next ladder. This was duly in place, and they began to descend it in the same order as before, but about midway Wylie’s heart stood still. What if the unknown enemy who had removed the second ladder should have sawn through the supports of this one? He said nothing to his friends, and they went on steadily until they reached the foot of this ladder, and passed through a hole cut in the rock to the head of a fourth. This also was passed in safety, and they stood on a rocky platform, extending some way into the rock in the form of a cave. This was only some hundred and fifty feet above the ground, and the rope-ladder was hanging from its two iron stanchions ready for their descent.
“I say,” said Maurice, “I don’t like the look of this cave. We can’t very well search it without a light, for any one hiding in it could see us against the stars, but if Zoe’s phantom is there, he might think it rather a good dodge to cut the ladder while we were all on it. You take Zoe down first, Wylie, and I’ll stay on guard until you are safe down.”
“All right,” said Wylie. “Take my revolver, and don’t hesitate to shoot. I wonder if Armitage is down below?”
He whistled softly, and an answering whistle came up, while the limp, dangling ladder became firm. Once again Zoe was thankful for her moccasins, for it was much more nervous work descending the loose rungs of rope than those of the wooden ladders. Wylie guided her feet as before, and slowly and steadily they came nearer to the darkness which meant firm ground. She had kept up valiantly hitherto, but when it came to the last step she could not induce herself to take it. She seemed to have been crawling down shaking ladders for unnumbered hours, and she clung shivering to the ropes, utterly unable to quit her hold. Wylie unclasped her hands gently at last, and lifted her down, saying, in a commonplace, society voice which dried up her threatening tears, “I want to introduce my friend Armitage, Miss Smith. You have to thank him for getting you out, for he wasn’t suspected as I was.”
“Awfully glad to see you safe on firm ground,” said Armitage. “I’m afraid you’ll find things rather rough, but if you’ll kindly put up with it——”
“We should like to have brought a whole outfit, and a lady’s-maid, and all sorts of Eastern luxuries for you,” said Wylie, who was holding the ladder steady for Maurice to descend; “but we were afraid of rousing suspicion. As your sister—I mean Princess Eirene—isn’t here, may I say that you must think you are on active service?”
Zoe had been laughing rather nervously, but the question roused her to recollection. “Oh,” she cried, “have you brought me any note-books?”
“No, really, I’m afraid not,” said Wylie, dismayed. “Why?”
“Oh, I have been living the most splendid story all the time I have been in the monastery, and I wanted to write it down before I forget. I know it will all fade when I get with other people.”
Her tone spoke of such complete absorption in the story that Wylie was conscious of a jealous feeling that the absence of the note-books was not an unmixed misfortune.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said hypocritically. “We’ll bring you cartloads of note-books as soon as we get to Th——”
An exclamation from Armitage broke into his sentence. Above, on the edge of the rocky platform, a high cap and a bearded face were momentarily outlined against the starry sky, and something shining caught the light. One side of the ladder seemed to drop, and the rungs hung drooping. Wylie felt for his revolver, but it was in Maurice’s sash as he clung half-way down the ladder, and before Armitage could thrust his into his hand, the remaining side-rope parted with a sound like the report of a gun, and Maurice seemed to fly outwards through the air. He came to the ground with a thud which drew an agonised shriek from Zoe, and Wylie scarcely doubted that he must be killed. He was unconscious when they reached him, but as they were anxiously feeling his limbs, he opened his eyes for a moment.
“Broken, I think,” he said, as Armitage touched his right arm, and Wylie confirmed the opinion.
“Well, better than a leg,” said Maurice feebly. “You’d have had to leave me here if it had been that.”
“Nonsense, we’d have rigged you up a cacolet, and carried you on a baggage-mule,” said Wylie, examining into the extent of the injury by the light of the vestas which Armitage struck. “You may think yourself jolly lucky if this is all that’s wrong with you, Smith. I can manufacture some splints and strap it up, but if it had been an elbow, or a compound fracture of any sort, it would have been beyond me. Now, can you get to the camp if we help you along?”
Maurice set his teeth, and submitted to be helped up and supported as far as the tents, where Zoe, much to her indignation, was ruthlessly ordered to rest for an hour or so, on the ground of having gone through quite enough already. In vain she recalled her possession of First Aid certificates, Wylie was adamant, and even the ungrateful Maurice entreated her to go and lie down and not make a fuss. When she was called, in the early morning, the arm was set, and Maurice, though pale and in considerable pain, was quite ready to start. Wylie gave up his horse to him and walked at his side, and Zoe was mounted, as had been arranged, on the mule. What the guards thought of the additions to the party no one knew, for they asked no questions and made no remarks, and all went smoothly. There was one disagreeable moment during the day, when a peripatetic police official, travelling with an escort, was encountered. He accepted with enthusiasm the assurance that Maurice and Zoe were the two famous Europeans whose capture and detention by brigands had produced such a stir, and immediately afterwards declared his intention of arresting them for travelling in the interior of the country without a passport. Asked what he intended to do with them, he replied that it was his duty to conduct them immediately to the nearest port, whereupon he was assured that they were going thither as fast as they could. To this he rejoined that he felt it right to escort them there, and as his room, and that of his ragged regiment, was infinitely to be preferred to his company, it was clear that an attempt must be made to overcome his sense of duty. The means of doing this was simple, but expensive, and to the last it was doubtful whether his affection for the travellers would not lead him to attach himself to them as long as they had anything left that commended itself to his fancy. They succeeded in freeing themselves from him, however, and the rest of the return journey was as uneventful as that from the coast had been. Maurice bore the travelling well, and he and Zoe took unfeigned delight in the open-air life after four weeks within stone walls.
The only person who was not satisfied was Wylie. He had accomplished the object to which all his efforts had been bent, he had the society of his friends again, but the reality was not equal to the anticipation. Zoe and he were not close comrades, as they had been in the early days of their captivity. Sometimes he tried to look at the fact from a common-sense point of view, deciding that Maurice’s accident was enough to account for the change, but at other times he told himself bitterly that it was all his own fault for forgetting the note-books. Of course, Zoe must think that he was utterly and wilfully indifferent to the things that interested her. It was so unfair, too, for though, like most men of his type, he had little fancy for any woman with whom he had to do “mixing herself up with writing,” he was sure that Zoe could not have discovered this. He had acquiesced in the jesting, matter-of-fact way in which she chose to allude to her literary efforts, and had even congratulated himself that the taste could not be very deep-rooted. And now this wretched story of hers was coming between them, he was sure of it. When she rode for an hour in silence, and had to be recalled to her present surroundings with a start, he knew she was living in that world of hers in which he had no part. It did not affect his feelings towards her. If she chose to write novels all day and every day, he would accept the fact, and prize the results, however little he could enter into them, because they were hers, but the sense of aloofness came from her side. As she had put it to herself after their parting in the forest, she had been learning to do without him, and with her mind preoccupied with her story, she had found it easy.
“I amso dreadfully worried about Maurice,” said Zoe, meeting Wylie in the courtyard of the Professor’s villa at Kallimeri, to which they had come immediately on reaching Therma by sea from Myriaki.
“Why, is the arm worse? I thought that Greek doctor was too complimentary to my surgery. Shall I ride in and find a European surgeon and bring him out?”
“No, I don’t think it’s that. I can’t help fancying Maurice must have got a touch of fever the night we lay off the harbour. He is worrying about Eirene, and says that he feels she’s in some great danger. That sort of thing is so unlike Maurice—thought-transference and things of that kind, I mean—and I think he must be ill. He talks of going into Therma himself and insisting on seeing her, and you know the doctor said he was to keep perfectly quiet. I suppose they may be carrying Eirene off to Scythia, but I don’t see how he knows about it. At any rate I’m sure he’s not fit to go and contend with all the obstacles they would put in his way at the Scythian Consulate.”
“Well, I’m not exactly a favoured visitor there myself, and it’s pretty clear that Armitage isn’t either, since they have sent back his pictures without even undoing them.”
“Oh, I hadn’t heard that,” said Zoe.
“They arrived this morning, with a note from Mme. Ladoguin to say that the duplicity of Armitage’s behaviour since his audience of her had so shocked the Princess that she considered herself released from any obligation to him. They have found out what happened at Hadgi-Antoniou, you see. I suppose Papa Demetri’s messenger got through just too late for them to stop us.”
“I wonder if it would be any good my going?” mused Zoe. “I scarcely like leaving Maurice for a whole day, but——”
“You musn’t think of it. You don’t imagine that if they let you in it would be for any good? The next thing we should find out would be that you were smuggled away to Scythia, and we should have to begin the hunt all over again.”
Zoe laughed. “Perhaps if I wrote a note to Eirene, they would let her answer it,” she said. “I suppose Maurice would be satisfied if he knew she was well, and not utterly miserable. You don’t think she has started already, do you?”
“There was nothing of that kind in the note, and they could just as well have said that the pictures had arrived too late, if they wanted to snub Armitage. Well, shall I ride in with the note, and do my best to get it into the Princess’s hands? More I can’t promise, but it’s just possible that they won’t be looking out for me now, and I may manage to see her.”
“I don’t like giving you so much trouble——”
“It’s no trouble. In fact, I must have gone in to-day or to-morrow to report to Sir Frank Francis, who has done what he could for us all along, in a blundering, slow-coach, civilian sort of way. He’s a good old chap. The Professor has been talking of going in too, to see the Vali. He believes he’s on the track of a Thraco-Dardanian conspiracy to destroy all the Greek and Roumis in Emathia at one fell swoop, so he’s naturally excited, and thinks he’ll make the Vali so too.” Wylie spoke lightly, for his pride had imposed upon him the expediency of treating Zoe as she treated him. If she did not care to remember the days in which they had faced death and hardship together, he was quite willing to behave as a mere ordinary acquaintance. He would serve her in any possible way—that much his love for her demanded of him—but he would not court rebuff by exhibiting his feelings. The natural result of this course of conduct was that Zoe, missing something in his manner which she liked, while objecting to what it implied, began to make delicate experiments for the purpose of ascertaining how far she could go. She declined now to be drawn aside from the topic she had started.
“It doesn’t seem fair that you should always be running errands for us. We seem to have annexed you altogether. How is it you haven’t had to go back to India yet?”
“Got an extension of leave,” said Wylie, unmoved. “Always glad to make myself useful when I can, you know. Well, if you will write that note, I’ll find out whether the Professor is going into town, and go without him if he isn’t. I should think we shall spend the night at his house, and come out to-morrow, which will give me a little more time to besiege the Princess.”
“I don’t know how I shall keep Maurice quiet all day,” sighed Zoe.
“Oh, he’ll be all right when he knows some one is trying to see her. Are you going to ask her to come out?”
“Oh, not in the note. They would never let it reach her. But if you see her, you might suggest that she should spend a day here. The Professor knew her father, you know. Of course, Madame Ladoguin must come too, but I’ll manage her.”