“I desire the Regent’s permission,” he said, “to absent myself from the country for an indefinite period.”
“It is granted—a year, if you wish.”
The Duke laughed softly, almost mockingly, indeed.
“I fear I may not stay quite so long,” he answered, “much as it would please me to oblige you. My presence will be necessary in a certain ceremony in the Cathedral, that is fixed for a few weeks short of a year.”
The Regent’s eyes narrowed. “In the crypt, you mean?—your absence will, at least, postpone the ceremony—had you remained, I imagine it would have occurred much earlier.”
Even Lotzen’s calmness was disturbed by such a threat from a woman—and, momentarily, his color heightened and his eyes snapped in irritated surprise. Then he bowed.
“I am glad to have been shown the claws so early,” he replied with sneering sarcasm; “I shall endeavor to keep beyond their reach. But I shall do my best to furnish the crypt another tenant, though I will not promise to put my Court in mourning for him.”
The Princess shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“It is quite unnecessary to tell us what your barbaric nature told us long ago,” she replied. “When do you wish to depart?”
“Within the week.”
“And for where?”
“For France—Paris in particular.”
“Very well—prefer your request through the regular channel, as any other officer, and I will grant it;” and with a perfunctory nod, she resumed her reading.
“I am permitted to withdraw?” he asked.
“You are always permitted to withdraw,” she answered, without looking up.
“I like your spirit, Dehra,” he laughed; “you and I would make an unconquerable pair; it is a pity you won’t be my queen.”
She pointed toward the door.
“Go, sir,” she ordered, her voice repressed to unusual softness; “go! nor present yourself again until you have received permission.”
And with a smile and a bow, he went; backing slowly from the room, in an aggravation of respect.
He had not come to the Palace for leave to go to France, or any where else; where he wanted to go, and when, he went. But his plans required that he be absolutely free and untrammeled, and so he had done this to insure himself against being ordered suddenly to some military duty that might hamper his movements even slightly. And his visit had been doubly successful—he had the permission, and in such a form that he was given the utmost liberty, and he had also learned the Regent’s real attitude toward him, and that even with her it would be a fight without quarter. What the American would make it, the dead bodies in the De Saure house had indicated as plainly as spoken words—and, indeed, as such he knew they had been deliberately intended.
As he passed one of the windows in the corridor, he caught, far off amid the trees, the sheen of a white gown; he paused, and presently he recognized Mlle. d’Essoldé. With a smile of sudden purpose, he went quickly down a private stairway that opened on the Park below the marble terrace, and, eyes on the white gown, that showed at intervals through the bushes, he sauntered toward it.
There was, to be sure, a woman with raven hair and dead-white cheek at the Ferida, but there was also a woman yonder, and handier, with golden hair and shell-pink cheek; and variety was much to his taste, at times—and the picture on the stair still lingered with him, fresh and alluring. True, she had not received his advances with that flattered acquiescence he was rather used to, but he had no particular objection to temporary opposition; it gave zest to the victory—and, with him, victory had been rarely lost.
He encountered her in a narrow path, walled in by thick hedges of scarlet japonica, turning the corner suddenly and greeting her with a smile of well assumed surprise; stopping quite a little way off and bowing, his cap across his heart.
And she stopped, also; touched by fear and repugnance, as though a snake lay in her path.
“A happy meeting, mademoiselle,” he said.
“For whom, sir?” she asked, turning half away.
“For me,” he laughed, going toward her; “and for you, too, I hope.”
She put her back to the hedge and made no answer.
“I owe you a very abject apology, for the other day,” he said, standing close beside her, and leaning on his sword. “I fear I was brutally rude.”
“There isn’t the least doubt of it,” she replied, and made to pass on.
He stepped before her.
“And are so still,” she added.
“Come, Elise,” he smiled, still blocking the way, “come; forgive me.”
“Very well, I forgive you,” she said, indifferently, and tried again to pass.
“Nonsense, my dear,” catching her wrist, “put a bit of warmth into it—and then prove it by a little stroll with me toward the lake.”
She recoiled at his touch, much as though the snake had stung her, and tried to wrench free, tearing her thin gown and scarring her flesh on the sharp thorns of the japonica, but making no outcry.
And this encouraged Lotzen; she was playing it very prettily indeed—to yield presently, the weary captive of superior strength. That a woman might be honest in her resistance, he was always slow to credit; but that one should actually be honest, and yet struggle silently rather than permit others to see her with him, was quite beyond his understanding.
He glanced up and down the path; no one was in sight, and the hedge was high—he would make the play a little faster. Hitherto, he had been content to hold her with a sure grip, and let her fling about in futile strivings; now he laughed, and drew her slowly toward him, his eyes fixed significantly upon her flushed face and its moist red lips, parted with the breath-throbs.
“Where shall I kiss you first, little one?” he asked—“on the mouth, or a check, or the gleaming hair?”—He held her back an instant in survey.... “Coy?—too coy to answer—come, then, let it be the lips now, and the others later, by the lake.”
She had ceased to struggle, and her blue eyes were watching the Duke in fascinated steadiness. To him, it signified victory and a willing maid—he took a last glance at the path—then with a cry and a curse he dropped her wrist and sprang back, wringing his hand, the blood gushing from a ragged wound across its back, where Elise d’Essoldé’s teeth had sunk into the flesh.
And she, with high-held skirts, was flying toward the Palace.
He sprang in pursuit—and stopped; she would pass the hedge before he could overtake her; and the open Park was no place for love making of the violent sort—nor with a wound that spurted red. The business would have to bide, for the present.... Over toward the terrace he saw the flutter of a white gown.
“Damn the little cat!” he muttered; “she shall pay me well for this.”
Elise d’Essoldé, spent with running, her brain in a whirl, her hair dishevelled, weak-kneed and trembling now with the reaction, reached the marble steps near the pergola and sank on the lowest, just as Colonel Moore came springing down them, his eyes toward the japonica walk, searching for the girl in a white gown whom he was to have met there half an hour ago.
And he would have passed, unseeing, had she not spoken.
“Ralph!” she said, “Ralph!”
He swung around.
“Elise!” he exclaimed, “I’m sorry to be so late—I was—heaven, child, what has happened?”
The sight of him, and the sound of his voice, had calmed her instantly and put her pulse to normal beating; and now that she was with him, safe and unscathed, the coquette in her could not resist the temptation to torment him.
“Another kept the rendezvous,” she answered, with affected naïveté.
He pointed to the torn gown.
“And that?” he asked.
“I did it.”
“And the hair?”
“The penalty of an ill-arranged coiffure.”
“And the red mark on your face—blood, it looks like.”
“Blood!” she cried; “blood? where—where?”
“On your lips—around the mouth—”
The coquette vanished—the horror of it all flashed back upon her:—Lotzen’s sybaritic leer—his easy confidence of assured success—the touch of his loathsome hand to her face—the sickening sensation as her teeth cut through his flesh and scraped the bones beneath—with a cry of disgust she sprang up, swayed unsteadily, and would have fallen had not Moore caught her.
“Water!” she implored, “water!” rubbing her lips frantically with her handkerchief—“water, oh, water!”
Amazed—mystified—alarmed, he stood an instant irresolute—then swinging her up, he bore her to where, near the sun-dial, a fountain played and splashed among the giant ferns. As they reached there, the nervous tumult subsided as quickly as it came, and she slipped swiftly out of his arms, and knelt beside the fountain, the spray powdering her hair with rainbow dust. And when she had bathed her face free of the blood-stain—though she could not wash away the red of her own embarrassment—she ventured to look at him.
He met her with a smile, that showed only sharp concern and tenderest sympathy.
“My child,” he said, taking her hand, in the most gentle deference, and holding it in both of his, “tell me what has unstrung you so completely—you who are always merry and serene.”
She gently freed her hand, and, gathering up the trailing ends of her skirt, turned toward the Palace.
“If I tell you,” she said, “promise me that you won’t make a scene nor try to punish him.”
“Him!” he exclaimed, stopping short, “him! God in Heaven, was it that devil, Lotzen?”—he seized her arm—“where is he—where is he?”
She smiled at him very sweetly, loving the anger that blazed his face.
“I’ll tell you nothing,” she answered, “so long as you are in that humor—your promise first.”
“No—no—I promised and forbore the other day; but now, with that”—sweeping his hand at gown and hair—“I’ll forbear no longer.”
She moved on.
“Come, Elise, who was it?”
She gave him another smile, but shook her head.
“Was it Lotzen—tell me, was it?”
Again the smile, and the motion of refusal.
“Very well, if you won’t, I’ll find out for myself.”
“You cannot—the man won’t tell—and no one saw it.”
He laughed with quiet menace.
“I’ll find him,” he said; “I’ll find him.”
Quick fear seized her. He would succeed, she knew; and then, what would he do! Something, doubtless, to try to force the Duke to fight; and which would result only in his own disgrace and in being driven from the country. He must not suffer for her misfortune—and Dornlitz, without her dear Irishman, would be impossible; and she was not yet quite ready to go with him. She had told him something—as much as she might with proper reserve—of Lotzen’s behavior that other morning; and it had been difficult enough to restrain him then. Now, with the dishevelled hair, and torn gown, and blood on her face, only his own word would hold him.
“Promise me, Ralph, promise me,” she implored; “there is no reason for punishment—see,” holding out her hand, “here is the only place he touched me—only on the wrist—I swear it, Ralph—”
He took the hand, and looked at the soft, blue-veined flesh, chafed and abraded with the pinch of iron fingers; and again the rage of hate swept him, and he put the hand down sharply and turned away his head, unwilling that she should see his face while passion marked it.
She touched his arm, almost timidly.
“Promise me, dear,” she said—“please promise me.”
She did not realize what she had called him; nor, indeed, did he, until days afterward, too late to turn it to account; though what he answered worked far more to his profit, than had he used the chance offered by an inadvertent endearment.
“I promise,” he said; “I ought not to; but because you wish it, I promise—now will you tell me?”
She looked up at him gratefully—and such women as Elise d’Essoldé can say much with their eyes. They had mounted the steps and were on the terrace; she pointed into the Park.
“It was in the japonica walk,” she said; “I was waiting for you, when Lotzen came upon me, seemingly by accident——”
“There are no accidents with Lotzen,” Moore broke in.
“It may be, but he chose to treat it so;—I tried to pass—he stopped me and begged forgiveness for his brutal rudeness of the other day; I forgave him indifferently, hoping to escape quickly, and tried again to pass. He caught my wrist, and demanded a kiss, and that I walk with him to the lake. I was close against the hedge, and it was in my struggles to get free from him that the sharp thorns tore my gown. He let me thrash out my strength, holding me all the time by this wrist; presently, when he was about to kiss me by main force, I bit him in the hand, and escaped, running at top speed, and in fright and exhaustion collapsing where you found me.... That was all, Ralph,” she ended.
Moore’s intense repression found some relief in a long breath.
“All!” he said, rather huskily; “all! ... well, all I ask is, some day, to have him against me, sword in hand.”
“Your promise!” she exclaimed.
He smiled down at her. “The promise holds, child, as you well know; but this affair of the Book may work an opportunity.”
“If it does, take it,” said she instantly.
“Trust me, my lady,” he answered, as he left her at the small door used only by the Princess and her privileged intimates.
“Your lady?” she echoed across the sill—her natural witchery increased four-fold, in his eyes, by the tumbled hair—“your lady—perhaps.”
In the hallway, just at her own room, she met the Princess, who, woman-like, marked at a glance every detail of her disordered attire.
“Good heaven, Elise,” she exclaimed, “what has that Adjutant of mine been doing to you?”
“Practicing sword tricks on my skirt,” said she, holding it up to show the rents, “and learning to beun coiffeur.”
“He seems to be as uncommonly proficient in the one as he is deficient in the other,”—then looked at her questioningly; “but seriously, Elise, what happened?—if you care to tell me.”
“The Duke of Lotzen found me alone in the japonica walk.”
The Princess struck her hands together angrily.
“Lotzen! oh, Lotzen!” she exclaimed; “some day—did Moore come on him there? If he did, the some-day is already here.”
“Fortunately, no, since I escaped unharmed.”
“Unfortunately, you mean—it saved to the world another scoundrel.”
“And Ralph would be a fugitive in disgrace,” said Mlle. d’Essoldé.
“With the Lion and a Brigadier’s commission as a punishment,” the Regent answered.
“He wanted to go back, and it was I that kept him.”
“It’s a misfortune—more than a misfortune; it’s almost a calamity—my dear Elise, if ever again your Colonel get so proper an excuse to kill that devil, pray don’t intervene.”
“I’m sorry—very sorry, I’m almost criminally stupid.”
“Nonsense, dear,” said the Princess; “there will be other chances—meanwhile, what happened?... Bit him! Oh, delightful, delightful!”
The other gave a shiver of repugnance.
“Disgusting, I should call it, now—I did it in the frenzy to be free. I shall never forget the horrible thing.”
“Nor will he—you’ve marked him for life—the pity is it wasn’t his face.—Go on; what happened then?”...
“The nasty brute,” said Dehra, when she had heard the last detail—“and save for the punishment you yourself administered, he, for the time, must go scatheless; you cannot permit such a story to go through the Court and the Clubs; and you may be quite sure he won’t tell it.” She struck her hands together vehemently. “Lotzen! oh Lotzen!—Some day, Elise, your lover or mine is going to be granted the blessed privilege of putting a sword through his vile heart.” She sprang up. “Come, dear, you need diversion—we will ride; and if I can get the Archduke, we’ll take your Colonel, too.” She went to the telephone.... “Is that you, Armand?”—when the recall bell rang.... “This is Dehra—Elise and I are off for a ride; if you can go with us, I’ll have Moore go, too.... Bother your important appointment; break it.... You can’t?... We can be back by four o’clock.... Have matters to see to; will they occupy all the afternoon?... They will?... And you need Moore, also?—all right, take him—what is your appointment?... Can’t tell me over telephone?... Tell me to-night—well, I suppose I can wait—come for dinner.... Yes, stupid.... Good-bye, dear.”
She hung up the receiver. “You heard, Elise; neither of them can go. I should hate to be a man and always busy. Come, we will go ourselves, and make an afternoon of it—and stop at the Twisted Pines for tea.”
The failure of Colonel Moore to keep promptly his appointment with Mlle. d’Essoldé to meet her that morning in the japonica walk was due to a letter that had come to him in the early post, and which had sent him, without a moment’s delay, straight to Dornlitz and Headquarters; nor did he even stop to telephone the Archduke, but left it for one of the young officers in the outer office to do.
The Military Governor received him at once, and with a look of questioning concern.
“Anything wrong at the Palace?” he asked.
“Nothing, Your Highness,” said Moore, with his graceful salute—so unlike Bernheim’s stiff motion—“nothing; I brought this letter; it is for you, though sent to me.”
The Archduke took it, without comment—he knew it must be of peculiar importance to bring Moore in person at that hour. When he had read it, he looked carefully at the envelope, and turning on his desk lamp, he spread the letter under it and examined it very slowly and critically; finally he re-read it aloud:—
“‘If His Royal Highness the Archduke Armand wish to know the whereabouts of a certain Book, let him be at the Inn of the Twisted Pines at four o’clock this afternoon. No harm is intended; and as a proof he is privileged to bring as large an escort as he desires. If he accept, let him stand in a window of his private office, overlooking the Avenue, for five minutes at exactly noon to-day. This is his only chance; there will be no second letter.“‘One Who Knows.’”
“‘If His Royal Highness the Archduke Armand wish to know the whereabouts of a certain Book, let him be at the Inn of the Twisted Pines at four o’clock this afternoon. No harm is intended; and as a proof he is privileged to bring as large an escort as he desires. If he accept, let him stand in a window of his private office, overlooking the Avenue, for five minutes at exactly noon to-day. This is his only chance; there will be no second letter.
“‘One Who Knows.’”
“Well,” said he, “the writer at least knows how to put up a very enticing bait—‘privileged to bring as large an escort as he desires—at four o’clock this afternoon—at the Inn of the Twisted Pines’—surely, there is nothing in them to suggest danger, daggers or death.... I think we shall accept, Colonel; what’s your notion about it?”
“If it is a plant,” he said, “it’s a very clever one—and hence spells Lotzen; but, for my part, I’ll be charmed to go with you, whatever it is.”
The Archduke smiled. “Of course you will, you peaceful citizen, and be sadly disappointed if there isn’t a head for you to hit. It’s just as well I gave you to the Regent, you would be leading me into all sorts of danger.”
“And Your Highness has established such a splendid reputation for avoiding danger,” Moore laughed.
“How so?”
“Did it never occur to you, sir, that the man who would deliberately force a sword fight with the Duke of Lotzen, has won a name for reckless courage that he can never live down?”
“But I disarmed him, thanks to your defense to hiscoup.”
“Small good would my defense have been to one who hadn’t the nerve and skill to use it; to fail means death, as you, of course, appreciated.”
The Archduke nodded. “But the public knew nothing of all that.”
“Just so, sir—all they know is that you, in sheer deviltry, took your chances against one of the two best swordsmen in Valeria; that you won, demonstrated your skill, but it didn’t disprove the recklessness.”
“I did not intend it that way, Moore; I assure you I had no idea of bringing on a fight that night at the Vierle Masque, when I went over to him and the Spencer woman.”
A broad grin overspread the Irishman’s handsome face.
“You couldn’t make a single officer believe it,” he said; “and seriously, sir. I wouldn’t try. It is just such a thing as your great ancestor would have done, and it has caught the youngsters as nothing else ever could; they swear by you—only last night, I heard a dozen of them toast you uproariously as the next king.”
“Which brings us back to the Book and this letter,” Armand remarked; “shall we take an escort?”
“I’m a rather incompetent adviser, you think; but the very provision that you need not go alone, may be a trap to lull suspicion and bring you there with only an Aide or an orderly. If the letter is honest, it will be no harm to go well attended; if it isn’t honest, you will lose nothing, and the escort may be very useful.”
“You are becoming a very Fabius in discretion,” the Archduke smiled; “and we will take the escort.” He considered a moment. “Or, rather, we will have it on hand for need. I’ll see to it that a troop of Lancers shall be passing the Inn a little before four o’clock, and halt there, while their captain discusses the weather with the landlord. And we will ride up with a great show of confidence or contempt, whichever way the One Who Knows may view it.”
“Shall I tell Her Highness of the letter, and your purpose?” Moore asked.
“Not on your life, man! She would send a Brigade with us, even if she didn’t forbid our going. I’ll get you leave for the afternoon—and not a word to Bernheim, either; he would have nervous prostration, and load me down with a suit of plate-mail and a battle-axe. You and I will just have this little adventure on the side.” He got up. “I tell you what it is, Moore, the pair of us could make a brisk fight of it if we had to—hey, man?”
The Irishman laughed joyously.
“And may we have to, sir!” he cried; “may we have to!”—and made as though he were sending home a finishing thrust.
The Archduke shook his head. “There can’t be any doubt of it; you would have a most dangerous influence over me; it is well you’re with the Regent. But for this afternoon, I suggest that you select your favorite sword, and see that it doesn’t drag in the scabbard—and half-after-two at the Titian gate.”
Moore paused at the door.
“Of course,” said he, “Your Highness will wear the steel vest.”
“I’ll wear it,” was the answer; and the Colonel went out, wondering at the ready acquiescence, where he had anticipated a curt refusal. Before he had crossed the ante-room, the Archduke called him.
“I saw you were surprised,” said he. “I had a little adventure the other night that you don’t know about. Sit down a minute, and I’ll tell you of Bernheim’s and my visit to the De Saure house at two in the morning.”...
“I always said Bernheim was the man for a close pinch,” Moore remarked, at the end, “but he is even better than I imagined. The chest is simply delicious.” He paused, in sudden thought. “And, now, I reckon I understand why Count Bigler has his ear done up in surgeon’s plaster. I noticedit at the Club yesterday, and heard him explain it as a ‘sore.’ To-morrow, I’ll ask him if he caught the ‘sore’ in the De Saure house.”
“And don’t tell Bernheim,” said Armand; “if he knows he had such a good chance at Bigler, and then missed him, it will make him miserable for days.”
“Days! It will sour him for life. Next to the Duke of Lotzen, the Colonel hates Bigler most.”
When Moore had gone, the Archduke took up the letter and envelope and again examined them; looked for a water mark—there was none; went over the writing—man’s or woman’s he could not decide; postmarked at the main office in Dornlitz at ten P.M. of yesterday; not a scintilla any place to indicate the origin. Well, it did not matter; he would accept the offer; and there was an end of it, now—the solution could come this afternoon at four. So he put up the letter, and pushed the button for his secretary, quite forgetting to telephone the Princess as to borrowing her Adjutant. Then, after a while, she, herself, called him; and as they finished their talk, the bell sounded the first stroke of noon.
He arose, and hooking the frogs of his dark green jacket, the gold braid of his marshal’s insignia heavy on the sleeve, he went over to the large window, and raising the sash stood in full view of the avenue.
It was the hour when it was busiest; on the sidewalks a pushing, hurrying, good-natured crowd, at their mid-day recreation; in the road-way, a tangled mass of vehicles—not of the society folk, they came three hours later, but the wagons, and drays and vans of trade and traffic. He recognized an occasional face in the throng, usually some officer hurrying to Headquarters for the reception he always held for half an hour at noon. To-day it would have to start five minutes late.
Presently some one caught sight of him, and saluted with raised hat; others looked up, and did the same; and in a moment the crowd was passing in review, the men uncovering, the women greeting him with smiles. He answered with bows and hand-waves; and if a bit of satisfied pride stirred his heart and warmed his face, small wonder. He was still new in his royalty; and even if he were not, at this critical period, such demonstration of esteem by the general populace would have been very gratifying and particularly welcome. And he stayed a trifle longer than the required time; then, with a last bow and a wave of especial graciousness, he turned away, and rang for the doors to be opened.
It was the Archduke’s rule that entire informality should be observed at these affairs, and he emphasized it by sauntering around, speaking to everyone, and not obliging them to go up to him, for a stiff bow and a word. He laughed with this group, joked with another, argued with a third,until not a man but had come under his eye, at least for an instant, and he under theirs. He had begun the receptions soon after he became Governor of Dornlitz, more particularly for the purpose of getting acquainted with the officers on duty under him; but it was not limited to them—any one was welcome—and the result had been rather more satisfactory than even he had hoped for. There was not an official in his district to whom he had not given a hearty hand-shake and a pleasant word; and as he happened to have a truly royal knack of remembering faces, and the names that went with them, many a young lieutenant—and indeed, not a few higher in rank—had gone away with a flattered heart and an ardent enthusiasm, openly proclaimed, for the Marshal-Prince who would condescend to remember an unimportant subordinate, and seem glad to see him again, and to tell him so. And the contrast it offered to the Duke of Lotzen’s ungracious and domineering ways was little to the latter’s advantage; and the fruit of it had been ripening fast, within these last few weeks.
So, to-day, the room was crowded, and the welcome the Archduke received was such as might have made even Lotzen pause and think, had he seen it. And this thought occurred to Armand; and he ran his eyes over the many faces, wondering which of them belonged, to-day, to the Duke’s spy; for that there usually was one present he had no doubt.
And presently he found him; and, catching his eye, motioned for him to approach.
“I am glad to see you, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, relieving himself from offering his hand by readjusting his sword. “When was it I saw you last?”
Count Bigler’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement.
“Here, Your Highness?” he answered, “I am ashamed to confess I haven’t been here for many weeks.”
“Yet, surely, Count, I’ve seen you somewhere since then, and very recently, too—where was it?”
Bigler feigned to think.—“One sees Your Highness so many times, it is difficult to remember the last ... on the Field of Mars, last Monday, wasn’t it?”
The Archduke shook his head. “No,” he said, “no; it was in the evening—I recall that very distinctly.” Then he looked with deliberate inference at the bandaged ear—“oh, I have it: it was at the De Saure’s; you were there when I came, and you left first and—rather hurriedly. It all comes back to me now. Surely, Count, you can’t have forgot such a pleasant evening!”
Bigler assumed a look of guileless innocence.
“It is not permitted to contradict Your Highness,” he answered, “but I may, I think, at least venture the truism:—what one has not remembered, one cannot forget.”
“Or restated, my dear Count, to be quite in point:—what is inconvenient to remember, is best denied.”
“Just as Your Highness will have it,” Bigler grinned, and impudently fingered his ear.
“And confidentially, Count,” said Armand smilingly, “while we are dealing in truisms, I give you these two:—‘every man’s patience has its limit,’ and, ‘who plays with fire gets burnt’—fatally.”
Bigler’s grin broadened.
“Is Your Highness the man with the patience or the man with the fire?” he asked.
“Study it out, sir,” said the Archduke, as he passed on; “and let your master help you; the answer may concern you both.”
The last thing before leaving his office, that afternoon, he wrote a note to the American Ambassador, enclosing the anonymous letter, and telling him his intention in reference to it; and adding that if Courtney had not heard from him by morning he should do whatever he thought best. This he dispatched by an orderly; and then, choosing a long, light sword, he rang for his horse.
Just outside his door, he met General Durand and stopped for a word with him; as they separated he saw Ferdinand of Lotzen coming down the corridor.
Between them it had long been a salute given and acknowledged, but now the Duke halted, fingers at visor.
“May I have a word with Your Highness?” he said.
Armand’s hand dropped slowly, and he only half paused in his walk.
“I’m in a particular hurry, cousin,” he replied, “won’t to-morrow do as well?”
Lotzen’s eye-brows went up.
“Isn’t to-morrow rather uncertain for—both of us?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the Archduke instantly, “yes, it is; and hence what need of talk between us, at least so late in the day. Wait until we have a to-morrow.”
“What I wish to say has nothing to do with futures, cousin, only with the past, with the De Saure house—oh! that surprises you, does it?”
“Not half as much as the amazing mess you made of it,” said Armand.
“That, my dear cousin, is just what I came to explain,” said Lotzen quickly. “I had nothing whatever to do with the silly affair; it was a clever idea, but sadly bungled; I heard of it only the next day, and I want to assure you it was not my work—though, as I say, it was a clever idea—too clever, indeed, to be wasted so fruitlessly.”
The Archduke regarded him in speculative silence;—just what manner of man was this; and what could be his ulterior purpose in such an astonishing avowal!
“Will you tell me, cousin,” he asked, “why you should trouble to disclaim participation in an outrage, whose only offense, in your eyes, was its failure?”
Again Lotzen’s eye-brows went up. “I thought you would understand that it is in justice to myself; I would not have you think me guilty of so stupid a piece of work.”
“Doubtless, then, it will gratify you, monsieur, that I never doubted your complicity, however much I may have marvelled at the unskilled execution—you would have arranged it rather differently. Indeed, I was sorry that you, yourself, were not in command. I left a message, both upstairs and down, that I thought you might understand.”
Lotzen smiled, rather warmly for him.
“I understood,” he said; “your writing was exceedingly legible.”
“And I sent you another message, a little while ago, by the man with the wounded ear,” said the Archduke, his eyes upon the other’s bandaged hand. “I suppose you got it?”
The Duke laughed and held up his hand, the back and palm covered with plaster.
“This wasn’t made by a bullet, cousin;” he replied; “I got it this morning from a new pet I was trying to train.—No, I didn’t get your last message.”
“Better get it to-day, cousin,” said the Archduke, as he turned away; “to-morrowis rather uncertain.”
Ten miles out, on the Titian Road, is the Inn of the Twisted Pines. Something more than two centuries of storms and sunshine have left its logs and plaster wrinkled and weather-beaten, yet the house stands as stanch and strong as the day the last pin was driven, and the painted sign and the bunch of furze hung above the entrance.
The old soldier who built it had lived long enough to marry a young wife, and leave it to her and a sturdy boy; and, thereafter, there was always a son to take the father’s place; and with the heirship seemed to go the inherited obligation to maintain the house exactly as received. No modernity showed itself within or without; the cooking alone varied, as it reflected the skill or whim of the particular mistress; and it chanced that the present one was of unusual ability in that particular; and the knowledge of it coming to the Capital, had brought not a little trade of riding parties and the officers of the garrison.
And so Captain Hertz, of the Third Lancers, had not done quite the usual growl, when he got the order to march at once with his troop, selecting such a route as would bring him to the Inn a fewminutes before four o’clock, taking care to approach it from the West; and to halt there and await further instructions.
He had confided to his subaltern that it was a crazy sort of proceeding to be manœuvring against old Scartman’s Inn; but if it had to be done, it was at least considerate to choose as the objective point, a place where they could have a good meal to eat, and the keeper’s pretty daughters to philander.
And between thinking of the victuals and the damsels, the Captain so hurried the march that they reached the Inn unnecessarily early; yet they had no reason to regret it, for the tap-room was cool and pleasant, the food to their taste, and the girls’ cheeks prettier and softer than ever—though it would seem that, lately, the last were becoming much more difficult to taste.
“What’s got into the hussies?” Hertz demanded, rubbing his face, as the Lieutenant and he went out into the courtyard; “They used to be mild enough.”
“You’ve been falling off in looks the last year, my dear fellow,” Purkitz laughed—“can’t say I much blame the girl—I’ve no finger marks on my cheek, you see!”
“Huh!” grunted Hertz, “solid brass; wouldn’t show the kick of a mule.—What in Heaven’s name are we sent here for any way!—‘await further orders’—that may mean a week.”
“And why not,” the Lieutenant laughed; “the victuals are delicious, and the girls——”
“Oh, go to the devil!”
“And even father, himself, will do for company in a pinch.”
The Captain laughed, too. “Not if I can get away—did you ever see such a countenance? It positively makes me ill.”
“Poor old Scartman,” said Purkitz; “he’s a good man, but there is no denying that ‘the Lord made him as ugly as He could and then hit him in the face.’”
From the eastward, came the sound of a galloping horse.
“Our orders, I hope,” Hertz exclaimed. He glanced at his watch. “A quarter of four—I wonder what silly business we’re to be sent on, now.”
The hoof-beats drew swiftly nearer, but from where the two officers were standing, the high wall of the courtyard obscured the road, and they sauntered slowly across toward the gateway. As they reached it, a big black horse swept around the corner and was upon them before the rider could draw rein.
Hertz gave a cry of warning and sprang aside, tripped on his spur, and sprawled in the deep dust; while Purkitz’s wild jump landed him with both feet on his superior’s back, whence he slid off and brought up on Hertz’s head, thereby materially augmenting the fine flow of super-heated languagethat was bubbling from the Captain’s dirt-filled mouth—nor did the loud guffaw and the shrieks of feminine laughter, that came from the house, serve to reduce either the temperature or the volume.
Meanwhile, the cause of it all—a slender, sinuous woman, black gowned and black veiled—sat the big horse motionless and silent, waiting for the human tangle to unloose itself.
Coated with dust—his uniform unrecognizable, his face smeared and dirty—Hertz scrambled up.
“What in hell do you——a woman!” he ended, and stood staring.
“Yes, my man, a woman,” said she, “and one very sorry for your fall—you are the landlord, I presume.”
Lieutenant Purkitz gave a shout, and leaned against the gate.
“Landlord!” he gasped, “landlord!—that face—oh, that face!” and went off into a fit of suppressed mirth.
The woman looked at him and then at Hertz, and though the thick veil hid her features completely, there was no doubt of her irritation.
The Captain bowed. “Madame will pardon the ill manners of my clownish servant,” he said, indicating Purkitz; “I am Captain Hertz, of Her Highness’ Third Lancers. Yonder is the landlord; permit me to call him.”
She leaned down and offered him her hand.
“A thousand apologies, my dear Captain, for my reckless riding and my awkward tongue—there is small excuse for the former, I admit, but my veil may explain the latter.—You are not hurt?”
A voice so soft and sweet must have a face to match it, and Hertz went a step nearer.
“Madame can cure everything but my heart, if she but raise the veil,” he said.
The voice laughed softly.
“Then, sir, I am afraid to raise it—your heart would not survive the shock. Good-bye, and thank you,” and she spurred across to where old Scartman was standing near the stables.
“I am to meet some one here at four o’clock,” she said; “has my party come?”
Boniface’s shrewd little eyes had taken her in at a single glance.
“Gentleman, I suppose?” he asked.—“None of them?” jerking his thumb toward the two lancers.—“No? then he’s not here yet.”
She glided gracefully out of saddle, and hooked up her skirt.
“Put my horse in the stall nearest the door,” she ordered; and herself saw it done. “Now, I want a room—the big one on the lower floor—for an hour or so.”
The inn-keeper bowed.
“Certainly, madame—and the gentleman?”