At the moment when Edward was drinking his cognac in the café in Corbo, Gabriel Dasso was sitting in the library of his house in the old town listening eagerly to a story. Lieutenant Mozara, his spurred riding-boots stretched out to the fire, was telling what had befallen him that afternoon in Alcador.
"It was in a crowd near the little theatre in the Plaza. I only caught a glimpse of him, but I knew the face at once as that of the brute you sent to Casa Luzo. I tried to get near him, but he had evidently seen me, for he slipped into a café. It was a low place, but I followed him. The old proprietor answered my questions with a cunning smile; no one had entered, he told me, and our friend was not among the disreputable crowds that lounged round the tables. There was nothing for it but to hurry on to the Casa Luzo.
"My horse was stabled at the little hotel on the Alcador road, and in under the hour I was interviewing old Pieto, or rather his wife, for the old man was in a state of collapse—and good red wine."
The lieutenant broke off and poured himself out some claret. His host pushed his own glass towards him also, and the two men drank. Then, "Go on," said Dasso, shortly.
"It was a funny story that she had to tell me. She says that yesterday that mysterious Mr. Sydney drove up in a car. With him were the lady companion and three burly ruffians, who, Teresa says, were strangers to her. They seem to have done their work pretty thoroughly, even to the extent of putting a bullet through the leg of your friend from Alcador.
"That was what made me believe the tale, for the man I had seen enter the café was using a crutch. Teresa said that Pieto was asleep at the time, but I expect he was drunk. She says that Galva was bundled into the car, and she overheard Sydney tell her that they were going to Rozanaen routefor England. He was very agitated, she says, and remarked that he was damn sick of San Pietro, and everything and everybody in it."
"But, Gaspar, you say this was yesterday. Why did not Pieto let me know?"
"They wouldn't allow him to. Two of the men Sydney had brought with him stayed on guard, and it was only——"
The lieutenant stopped and looked inquiringly at his companion, for through the night-air had come the sound of a gun, muffled, but unmistakable.
Dasso leapt to his feet with an oath.
"Enrico's gone," he said hoarsely, and made for the door. Mozara followed, and in a moment the men, assisted by the under-groom, were saddling Dasso's horse. Gaspar's own mare was on a pillar-rein where he had left her. A moment more and the two men were riding with loose rein up the cobbled street that led to the Palace.
The frightened inhabitants, who were conversing in little groups, scattered to right and left, and windows were opened and heads thrust out as the horsemen clattered past. The Palace gates were open, and dashing through them they pulled up their smoking horses at the great doors.
In the hall the servants, male and female, were crowded, their faces showing inactive stupidity. They fell apart and gave room for Dasso and the lieutenant as they made their way up the wide marble staircase. Reaching the corridor above, they turned to the right in the direction of the death-chamber.
"This is unseemly conduct, Señor Dasso. My uncle is barely dead." Armand was standing before them, a naked blade in his hand.
The intruders fell back.
"Prince Armand—youhere!"
"It seems so, gentlemen. This is a curious way to pay one's respect to the dead."
Gabriel Dasso stood with bowed head.
"I did not expect——"
"I did not intend that you should, Señor Dasso. Put up your weapon, Mozara, the guards are within call."
A moment's silence, then Dasso spoke.
"Your Majesty's appearance is timely. The people will be calling for you. They will want to greet the new king."
Armand smiled.
"Perhaps you will lend me the notes of your own speech for the occasion, Dasso; I am rather unprepared. Besides, I do not act for myself, I act for the Queen."
"The Queen?"
"I said 'the Queen,' Señor Dasso. To-night's blunder is not the only one you have made—you made one fifteen years ago when you did your hellish work in this palace."
"You have taken service early, prince, under the banner of this adventuress, this——"
"Señor Dasso," Armand was speaking quietly, "the Queen has ordered that there shall be no bloodshed here to-night. You are forgetting yourself." He called, and four of the royal guard came from a passage behind him.
"Show these gentlemen out. Dasso, I have no royal rank now, and can call you to account for this—by the bye," he added, as the guard closed round the discomfited men, "there will be a special edition of theImparcialto-morrow morning. It will interest you."
The escort left them at the door and Dasso and Mozara stood undecided on the great steps. Then, leaving their horses, they walked towards the gates. Once out of sight of the building, however, they stopped. Dasso was gnawing at his moustache in impotent fury.
"They told me he was better at seven o'clock. The nurse herself told me. What cursed luck." They walked on again, taking a path that led into the shrubberies. For, perhaps, five minutes they strode on in silence, then the lieutenant halted and caught at his companion's arm.
"Listen!" he said.
From a path close at hand came the sound of running footsteps and the heavy breathing of a spent man. Then round the bend before them emerged the figure of Edward Sydney. With a little laugh Dasso barred his way.
"So," he said.
Edward pulled up short and stared at the wicked faces before him.
"Gentlemen—you will let me—pass?" he gasped.
"I don't think so, Mr. Sydney. Haven't this gentleman and myself, as you English say, a bone to pick with you?"
Dasso smiled grimly as he spoke, a smile which caused a little shiver to pass over Edward and set him looking about him for a possible way of escape.
They had met in one of the narrow paths. On either hand the tall mass of foliage made an impenetrable wall. A few paces away Edward could make out an alley-way which ran at right angles, and he told himself that with luck and a start of a few yards he would stand a good chance of evading capture among the tortuous twists and turns of the shrubbery. In the mean time he must temporize.
"I cannot imagine what your excellency and I can have in common. We have met once—I think at Señor Luazo's, wasn't it?"
"We did meet there, Mr. Sydney, certainly, but it is about the lady who accompanied you here from England that I want to have a word with you."
"You mean Miss Baxendale?"
Dasso nodded.
They had been moving along the path slowly as they were speaking, and Edward noted with satisfaction that now a few feet only separated him from the entrance to the alley. If only he could take the attention of the two men from himself for a moment.—A thought occurred to him.
"Ah, yes—the young lady. If that is so, I think that this will interest you, Señor Dasso."
As he spoke he took from his breast pocket an envelope; it was, in fact, a London tailor's bill and was addressed to him at Belitha Villas, but in the gloom it served its purpose.
Dasso took it and drew out the folded sheet of paper it contained, holding it up to catch the moon-rays which here and there penetrated the leafage surrounding them.
Edward Povey seized the opportunity he had created, and, for the first and last time in his life, he struck a man. The blood surged joyously through his veins and sang a hymn of power in his brain as his fist shot out straight and true, and he felt the knuckles grind into the evil face of Gabriel Dasso. Then with a leap he had gained the dark alley way.
Dasso put a hand to his face and called out to Mozara, and in a moment the lieutenant was giving chase. Edward heard the sound of running footsteps behind him and he mended his pace.
On and on, turning and twisting, ran the poor exhausted little man. In some of the longer paths he would catch a fleeting glimpse over his shoulder of his pursuer, then a sudden plunge to the right or left separated them again.
At last at the end of a more than usually straight run he found himself in the open. To retrace his steps was impossible, already Mozara was but twenty feet from him, the barrel of a revolver shining blue in his hand.
Some hundred yards away the Palace rose, a dark mass against the star-powdered sky, and Edward knew that in the shadow of one of those buttresses lay the little staircase—and safety.
Breathing a hurried prayer for help, he darted across the moon-swept lawns, running unevenly, now upright, now bent nearly double. A shot whined past his ear and he drew in his breath sharply, then another, then—a stinging pain took him in the left shoulder and Edward Povey knew that he had been hit.
Almost at once the acute pain passed and his shoulder grew cold and numb and sticky. He faltered in his stride and all but fell, but the sight of the doorway gave him courage and again he stumbled on.
It took him only two or three minutes to reach it, but to the stricken man it seemed as though he were running for hours. A fog appeared to have risen before his eyes, a reddish fog in which danced and trembled little points of flame—and through the mist he saw the face of Pia, who had been placed to guard the foot of the staircase—felt strong arms supporting him—then with a little sigh drooped into oblivion.
*****
Edward came to his senses to find himself in a dimly lit chamber, with the face of the Princess Galva, white and drawn, bending over him, and her cool hand on his forehead.
Beyond her, in the gloom of the room, were other faces. Anna was there, and the duke, and a strange man whom they addressed as doctor, and who now came forward and took Edward's wrist. The latter could catch here and there a word of what he was saying; the voice seemed to come from a great distance.
"——unfortunate that it should be this room—locate the bullet—no, again in the morning perhaps—not to be moved—one of the sisters will watch—you can send for me if——"
Then the faces grew blurred and swayed in circles round the wounded man, and again his senses left him.
A dark, silent chamber. A room magnificent and lofty in which the far corners were shrouded in shadowy gloom.
Edward lay in a half consciousness, staring up at the ceiling. It caused him no wonderment that the ceiling was strange to him, and unlike any ceiling he had ever known, or that it should be carved and painted and rich with gilding.
There was a faint, elusive perfume in the air that set him thinking of cathedrals, and from somewhere near him there came a droning monotone.
He felt no definite pain now, only a sensation of lassitude and detachment. There was a strange tightness in the region of his heart and he felt a little cold. Turning his head he tried to rise upon his elbow, but a sharp pain took him in the shoulder as he moved, and he was glad to sink back again upon the pillow.
The movement, however, slight as it had been, had left him in a position from which he could get a better view of his surroundings, and as he took these in he gave a little gasp and felt the beads of moisture pricking out upon his forehead.
In the centre of the room there was a bed, the four posts of which, richly carved, upheld a fluted canopy of dull red silk from which depended heavy curtains looped up with tasselled cords. Upon the panel above the pillow an escutcheon was blazoned out in dull gold.
Edward closed his eyes for a moment before he could make up his mind to let them rest on the figure which he knew he would see lying beneath the crimson canopy. He asked himself what could have been the cause of his, Edward Povey's, presence in the death chamber of the king of San Pietro. Then he opened his eyes and looked.
Enrico was lying stiff in the centre of the bed, the sharp points of his knees and feet showing rigidly through the white sheet which covered his body. The thin hands were folded peacefully upon the breast, and between the stiffening fingers had been thrust a crucifix of ebony, bearing a silver image of the Christ. Below the hands, too, Edward noticed that some one had placed a single bloom, a rose. The little flower stood out eloquently among the sombre pageantry of death, "all the purer for its oneness," and he wondered idly whether it spoke of at least one who had truly sorrowed at the passing of the king, at one real regret.
On the bed, at the feet of the dead monarch, were two cushions on which were pinned the several orders and medals which had belonged to Enrico; his sword, too, lay between them, together with his plumed hat and his field-marshal's staff.
On either side of the bed there knelt a Sister of Mercy, and it was the monotone of their prayers that Edward had heard when he first awoke. In an alcove by the great carved fire-place a thin spiral of scented smoke rose from a censer. Four tall candles in silver holders made the space round the body an oasis of light, and in the cavern of shadow beyond loomed the strange shapes of massive furniture, and the dull gleam of mirrors. The heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, and there was no sound but the murmur of the women at prayer and the occasional fall of a cinder on the stone flags of the hearth.
The scene was eerie in the extreme, and Edward gazed in fascinated interest at the rigid figure on the bed. Enrico had been a handsome man in life, and with the passing of his evil soul his earthly dignity of aspect had increased. The head was lying well back and showed the noble sweep of the brow and the clean-cut profile of the high-bridged nose. A full beard, raven black and threaded here and there with grey, rested spread out like a pall upon his breast and reached to the clasped hands. Upon the sunken wax-like cheeks the firelight flickered and played ghastly shadow tricks in the hollows of the deep-set eyes.
One of the nuns rose silently from her knees to attend to a candle at the head of the bed which had been guttering in a little draught that had found its way into the still room. As the woman turned to resume her prayers she saw that Edward, upon his pile of rugs in the corner, was awake, and she came with noiseless steps over to him. She laid a cool hand upon his brow and spoke to him in a whisper.
"You are not to talk, señor; I have orders to fetch the Queen to you when you awoke."
"The Queen!—you call her that already! But she will be asleep, she——" He ceased speaking as the white hand was pressed over his lips, and he watched the sister as she glided noiselessly to a door that was concealed behind a curtain near him.
In a few moments she had returned, and behind her, Edward saw Galva, and a smile lit up his rather tired-looking eyes as she crept and knelt down by the side of the made-up couch.
Very adorable looked the young Queen of San Pietro as she bent her lovely head over Edward Povey. Her hair, parted in the centre, fell over her shoulders in two long plaits, showing their dark richness against the steel blue of the wrapper the girl had put on. Her face was a little pale and there were dusky rings showing under the eyes—eyes which still held a suspicion of tears.
The nun who had fetched her crossed the room and touched her fellow watcher on the arm, and together they left the room.
When they were alone Galva bent lower over towards Edward and he put out his hands and took her little ones between them, and as he did so something warm fell upon them.
"Why, Galva—what's all this—tears? Why——"
"Oh, guardy, you are hurt—and I can't bear it. I would never forgive myself—never, if anything were to happen to you. It is my fault—it——"
"I don't know, Galva, whether I'm badly hurt or not—sometimes I think I am. I don't feel much pain now—but there is a tightness here. Why was I put in this room, into the presence of death? Enrico in all his glory is hardly the best of company for an invalid." And he smiled a little.
"It was the doctor, guardy, the man who had been attending the king. He had you brought here as it was nearest, and he won't let them move you. He tried to find the bullet, but he couldn't. He is coming again in the morning. Who shot you, guardy?"
"Never mind that now, dear. I want to ask you something. I want you to tell me if——if——I have been of use to you, if I have helped ever so little to put you where you are now—to make you Queen of San Pietro."
Galva raised her head.
"Why, Mr. Sydney, what a strange question—of course——"
"Not so strange, dear, not so strange. Don't call me Mr. Sydney, just Edward. And so I have really helped a little? I'm glad. I'm—do you know, Galva, that I have always thought that in this life we are given our chance to combat the evil we do with good, to balance our account, as it were; that for every sin we commit, every wrong we do, we are given a whitewash brush, to use if we will."
"I think so too, guardy—but you have done no wrong. I won't believe any evil of you—you are all that is noble and good."
Edward shook his head.
"But you don't know everything, there are one or two little things which one of these days, when I am better, I will explain to you. Now go to bed, dear; this wrapper of yours is as thin as paper. In the morning I will explain—yes, explain. Good-night. Oh, by the bye, that is your rose, I expect, isn't it?" and he pointed to the bed, and Galva nodded. "I thought so, you little saint; I don't know any one else who would have put it there. Now run away, dear—-in the morning I will explain."
The girl rose and leant over the wounded man.
"Good-night, guardy dear, and God bless you," she said, and kissed him on the lips.
She turned at the door and sent him a little smile, and as she went from sight behind the curtain, a sense of desolation came over Edward Povey.
He thought it would be good to die like this—and perhaps it were better that there should be no explanation. He had taken on the mission of a man who was unable to act for himself, and he had carried it to a successful issue. All was right with the world, and he told himself that his own account was with God in His heaven.
He became mildly delirious and asked himself what more could he desire of the Romance he craved, than to pass out of life here in this chamber which might have been lifted bodily from a classic of the Middle Ages? What fitter surroundings than the tall sombre candlesticks, the praying women, the silence, and the shrouded figure on the bed? He turned his eyes to Enrico and felt a strange sense of companionship.
The pain in his chest seemed easier now, and the spasms were becoming less frequent. He lay between sleeping and waking, in a delicious state of ease. He thought tenderly of Charlotte, and wondered if she would miss him very much if she were never to see him any more.
There had been little love, little real love, between them for the past few years, but in his light-headedness Edward thought of her as he saw her that day years ago, decked out in the tawdry white finery of their wedding morning, trembling beside him at the altar of the shabby little Barnsbury church. He called to mind the girlish, shrinking figure standing on the threshold of life, and he remembered that there were tears shining through the cheap little net veil.
Then he went on through the years, through the hopefulness of it all, and the disappointments, through the troubled waters with their sun-kissed moments, to the dull tinged sea of matrimonial failure. He could not really blame Charlotte; her lot had been perhaps a harder one than his, after all.
Even the journey to and from the City, the noisy companionship of the second-class smoker, the life of the gloomy counting-house, the snack of lunch followed by the grateful pipe smoked on the sunny side of Gracechurch Street—these had all been his, and he knew now how they had all helped him to endure those years in the little villa at Brixton.
He wondered idly why God had not sent them any children. Little ones were so necessary to life. Charlotte and he would never have drifted apart if the wondering eyes of a child had been there to see—if there had been tiny roseleaf hands to hold them to each other. It would all have been so different then.
The blind at one of the windows had become disarranged, and through the aperture Edward saw the first sweet flush of the dawning. It was only a little glimpse, but he could see an inch or two of the horizon. Above the silver edge of a bank of stormy clouds that lay low over the sea, the coming day had barred the sky with green and gold and shell pink and glory. Gradually the light in the room increased, and the candles grew ghostlike, and the shadows lifted unexpectedly from the corners.
The two nuns had re-entered the room, and one of them crept softly over to his couch and gazed down at the white face. Then she tiptoed back and touched her companion on the arm.
"We will whisper our prayers, sister; our little friend is in a delicious sleep. He'll do now. We must think of the living before the dead."
In dynasties, as in politics, the pendulum pursues its immutable law. Those who, or whose immediate ancestors, had applauded the tragedy of fifteen years ago, were now to be seen in the very forefront of the rejoicings at the fair Estrato who had come out of the blue to rule over them.
The editor of theImparcialhad at last had his great chance, and the Marinoni he had purchased second-hand from a Madrid printing office was working overtime. For edition after edition he drove home the praises of the rising stars of San Pietro. With the true journalistic spirit he had seized on the high lights of the romance, points which he knew would delight the gossip-loving patrons of his sheet, and the café loungers on the promenade of Corbo were regaled with stories of the love of Galva and Armand, which, if not strictly true, were at least richly garnished with the roses of romance and were well worth the reading.
As a counterblast,El Diahad appeared the morning following the death of the king, with a heavy, wordy, black-bordered leading article in which the influence of Spain was barely disguised. It had pointed out to the inhabitants of San Pietro that they would do well to move warily in the crisis now before them, and that, at least, they should stay the celebrations of joy until after the vault in Corbo Cathedral had closed over the remains of the late king, whose small virtues they unearthed and glorified.
But your Corbian is not given to moving warily, and neither can he pretend to a sorrow he does not feel. It is small wonder, therefore, that the gala colours of rejoicing should outweigh the trappings of woe with which a few axe-grinding friends of the late monarch bedecked their sorrowing persons.
From an attic window high up in a small and dirty hotel facing the Cathedral Square, and well shielded by the faded and torn curtains, a man had sat for days watching the animated scenes beneath him. He sat with his chin moodily resting in his hand, in his eyes the haunted look of a man who is hard pressed.
*****
Gabriel Dasso and the lieutenant had, after the encounter with Edward Povey in the shrubbery of the palace grounds, made their way to the house in the old town. The ex-dictator did not consider all was lost until Spain had had her say in the matter; he relied, too, on the army, a hope which would have been fully justified had he had only Prince Armand as an opponent.
But he well knew the natures of the gay-hearted youths who held commission in the San Pietran army, and, knowing this, he sighed, and a vision of a lovely face rose up before him, a face in which the dark eyes shone serenely and fearless, and luminous with fascination. He felt that only too readily would the swords fly from their scabbards to do service for Queen Miranda.
The men let themselves into the house in the old town and made their way to the dining-room. Dasso went over and drew the heavy curtains across the windows. There was wine on the table and he drank greedily. Mozara was standing dejectedly before the fire, jabbing viciously at the logs with his heel. The sight of the spur reminded him of something, and he gave a hard little laugh.
"We might have brought away our horses, Gabriel—we may need them," he said meaningly.
"Pshaw, we'll win yet." But Dasso's tone was not hopeful as he said it, and the hand that held the wineglass trembled a little, which was not usual with the hand of the ex-dictator.
"What! You have been busy with your schemes, Dasso; you have not noticed the eyes of the Queen, perhaps. Win!"—and the lieutenant snapped his fingers—"impossible."
Gabriel Dasso leant over the table and he spoke in a low whisper. Perhaps it was the wine that caused the huskiness to come into his voice.
"I saw eyes, Gaspar, like thosefifteen years ago—and I won then. What is to prevent our doingnowwhat we didthen?"
He remained silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving Mozara's face.
"——now, what we didthen," he repeated; "the people know nothing of this girl, and before the story can leak out it will be all over. I can get the captains from the barracks, Luaz and Pinto, and—oh, they'll all come with me. The girl shall not be mentioned; they will think there is only Armand there, and you know what they think of him. But it must be now; I will not count on their help when once they have seen her. I myself will find the girl and deal with her as I dealt with her moth——"
With an oath the lieutenant started forward; the glass he had been holding crashed to the floor, and his breath came in little painful gasps.
"You devil—you—Oh, I knew the downward path was broad, I did not think it was so short. Only a few months since that evil day when I fell under your thumb. Before the night of the cards I had been no worse than the others, now—— What's that, Dasso?"
The lieutenant had broken off suddenly and stood in the attitude of listening, his face grey and set. For a moment there was a strained silence in the room, then there came to the ears of the men a confused distant murmur. Dasso reached out a hand and extinguished the lamp.
Cautiously the two men, brought together now by a common danger, moved to the window; the flicker of the logs in the grate lit up the fear on their faces. Gabriel drew the blind aside for about an inch and stood waiting.
All seemed quiet again now, and the men told themselves that they had heard some drunken roysterers on their way home from the Casino. After a few moments they returned to the fire. There was a sneer on Dasso's face as he turned to the younger man and took up the quarrel where it had been interrupted.
"So you prefer to remain here and be disgraced, eh? My plan is the only one left and to-night is the only time for the doing. If we succeed Spain will gloss over the affair; if we fail——"
"Stop, Gabriel, I won't listen to you, and I'll do no more of your hellish work. A few mouths ago my life was at least decent. I'll have no dealings with you after what you have said. I can only thank God that I was with you in this, else that poor girl would have had no mercy shown her and would now be dead. Perhaps that will atone a little when I meet my Maker. I'll expose you, Dasso—you—you murderer."
The spring that Dasso made took the lieutenant unawares and bore him heavily to the ground, his head striking one of the carved iron firedogs as he went down with a dull crash, and he lay still where he had fallen. The face of the elder man was livid with passion.
"You'll expose me, eh? Murderer, eh? Many have thought that, but no one has called me it to my face." The fingers were tightening round the throat of the unconscious officer.
"When—you—meet—your—Maker, you said. That will be to-night, my friend." He pressed more heavily, leaning his weight full upon the body.
And when all was over and the form beneath him no longer made any movement or sound, he stood up. There were great beads of moisture on his face, and the decanter clinked pitifully against the glass as he poured out more wine.
He took the cloth from the long sideboard and dropped it over the face of the man on the floor.
Now the sound that they had heard came to him again in little bursts, and he walked unsteadily to the window. Pieces of the glass dropped by Mozara crunched under his heel.
The lamp had not been relit, and the murderer was able to see clearly into the moon-bathed street. The Three Lilies was in darkness—evidently the sound had not come from that quarter.
Again. This time it was more pronounced, and Dasso could make out a dark patch, dotted with lantern light, moving towards the house from the direction of the town. As the murmur grew more distinct, the watching man could make out a word here and there; they were calling his name, and the epithets attached to it were not flattering.
Dasso left the window, and crossing to the fire peered into the steel face of the clock that stood in the centre of the mantelshelf. Then in the half light he went over to the little safe embedded in the wall.
He unlocked it with trembling fingers and took from it package after package of papers and carried them over to the fire, and placing them on the seat of a chair began his task of sorting. Some were put upon the burning logs without a second glance; others, including a large roll of paper money, he placed in the breast pocket of his coat.
There were other documents, too, which caused a furrow to take shape between the evil brows, and which were held to the glow and read through from their first word to their last before they were finally pocketed or sent to swell the growing pile of grey ash on the smouldering logs.
Only once did the man look towards the thing that lay still and sinister on the great bearskin rug not two feet from where he knelt. This was when he picked up the envelope containing the hand at cards which had been the downfall of the man who now was dead.
Dasso held the package for a moment in his hand, the custodian of a dead man's honour. He seemed to be debating whether Mozara could in any way further serve him. Then as the noise outside grew louder he thrust the envelope between the bars and rose to his feet. Now there came a knocking at the great oaken door, and Dasso heard his name called by angry voices. He knew why the mob had come seeking him, and he knew the temperament of the Corbians, that they were creatures in whom civilization and barbarism were separated by the faintest of lines, and who knew no restraint or reason once their passions were aroused.
A stone hurtled through the window-pane and checked by the blind fell down with a clatter on to the polished floor and rolled almost to his feet. For the first time Dasso showed signs of haste.
He made his way from the room and through many passages to the servants quarters at the back, taking, as he ran, from a peg in the lower hall, a wide-brimmed hat and a common brown cloak which had belonged to old Pieto.
There came a crashing and splintering from the front of the house, and the man told himself that the stout oak had given at last. He opened a door beside the great dresser shutting it behind him and shooting home the heavy metal bolts. He descended a short flight of steps that lay there, and which led down to the cellars of the old mansion. At the foot he waited, and feeling out with his hands he found and lit a horn lantern.
Through cellar after cellar he made his tortuous way, past bins and racks of wine, between casks and cases stacked high to the groined roof. The air was thick and musty and great rats scampered away at the approach of the flickering yellow light and the hurried footsteps.
Then the air grew cooler, and Dasso stopped and, raising his lantern, searched the walls round him. A few stone steps led up to an opening, through which with stooping shoulders the man passed. Here he was in a tunnel, a narrow tube, that rose gradually until the fugitive could feel the cool airs of the night upon his face, and he found himself in front of an iron gateway. He took from the pocket of his coat a key, and after a few attempts the gate was thrust open, tearing its way through the mass of vegetation with which the iron-work and hinges were choked, and Dasso stood in the moonlight of the vegetable garden of his house. A thick belt of trees separated him from the building itself, and in the distance he heard the cries of the mob who had now gained an entrance. He clenched his fists and turned away. As he did so, through the trees a light splashed redly, then another—and another, and the man knew that they had set fire to the building.
A curse spluttered out between his teeth as, dropping the lantern into a water butt that stood at hand, he started to run along the path that led away from the house.
For perhaps a hundred yards he ran, the path leading between beds of celery and fruit bushes. The moonlight cut the garden up into sharp black-green shadows, which were illuminated now and again by flashes of light from the burning house behind him.
At the foot of the garden a high wall, spiked with broken glass, barred his way, and turning to the left he ran along at its base till he came to a door, bolted and barred. In a few moments he had this open, and was out in a small lane that ran behind the house.
Following this he emerged into a broader road, and again into the main street in which stood what was left of his home. Here, disguised as he was, he was safe, and he stood in a doorway and looked up towards the burning house.
The fire had by now obtained a firm hold, and the old worm-eaten woodwork was blazing vividly. Silhouetted against the glow were the dark figures of the incendiaries, like imps of the netherworld, leaping and howling in drunken joy, and Dasso guessed, and rightly, that some of the choice vintages it had been his whim to lay down had fallen into their unappreciative hands.
Higher and higher leaped the flames, casting a glow as of burnished copper on the dark violet of the sky. Higher, too, rose the voices of the mob; they were singing now a song of the Estratos, and one which had not been heard in the streets of Corbo for many a long day.
For perhaps half-an-hour the man stood in the doorway watching the downfall of his home and of his hopes. Then, drawing his cloak round him and pulling his hat well over his face, he made his way to the Cathedral Square.
He had to stop many times on the way to slip into the friendly shadow of some porch. Late as it was, the town seemeden fêteon this night when their king lay dead in the Palace. The cafés were open and crowded with revellers, and bands of youths rushed madly past the homeless man, attracted by that beacon shining in the sky which promised devilment and plunder. It took Dasso, perhaps, half-an-hour before he emerged into the comparative quiet of the square facing the Cathedral.
At the side door of a dirty little hotel he stopped and rapped. The door was opened by the landlord himself, an evil-looking ruffian, who held the candle he carried up high to see who it was who came knocking at this late hour. Dasso took off his hat. The innkeeper fell back.
"Señor Dasso—why, what brings——"
"Don't stand there talking, fool, I'm coming in." He smiled cruelly. "You won't refuse a lodging to me, Gambi, surely."
The old man drew aside, and the hand holding the candle trembled. The visitor made his way into the kitchen of the hotel.
For a fortnight now the man had been sitting almost incessantly at the window looking down into the Cathedral Square. He had seen many happenings—the State procession of the new King and Queen when they attended Mass, the shouts of the multitude, and the smiles of the royal beauty in the carriage.
One night, too, a huge bonfire had been lighted in the square, and an effigy, whom he had no difficulty in recognizing, had been burnt to the accompaniment of drunken jeers and savage howls of execration.
The innkeeper, whose many misdeeds made him loath to offend his unwelcome guest, to whom they were well known, told him that the people were searching high and low for him, and that they had now come to the conclusion that he had left the island.
"In another week or two, Gambi, when my beard has grown more, their conclusion will be justified," Dasso had remarked, and the innkeeper had been very relieved indeed to hear it.
The sun newly sunk behind the Yeldo Hills had stained the sky with rose and amber, and it was very peaceful in the darkening grounds of the Palace of Corbo.
The woods were alive with the evening songs of the birds, and a light wind that blew in from the sea brought with it the chimes from the Cathedral belfry. The shrubberies loomed big in the violet twilight and afar out the sea lay placid, steel-blue and mysterious.
Edward Povey, surveying the scene from the comfort of a bath-chair, was putting to himself a few pertinent and very necessary questions. Some lines which he had heard years back came into his mind, he couldn't remember them exactly, but they had to do with what the devil would do when he was sick.
Amongst other thoughts which crowded into the brain of Mr. Povey were the warm feelings he had experienced towards Charlotte when, as he thought, he lay dying in Enrico's death chamber, and he told himself that they were very right thoughts to have.
He remembered also the events of the past few months, Galva's unremitting care and tenderness to him during the period of his convalescence. The thought that the time had now come when his part in her affairs was done was a very bitter one, but as day followed day the feeling that he was an impostor grew stronger. He had long thought that he must get away from it all. Every kind word, every smile was a stab to him. To explain matters now would do no good, spoiling as it would Galva's happiness. He hated, too, to think of her eyes regarding him in any other way but with admiration, the thought of the disgust that might show in her face unnerved him. He felt very thankful that his fears of death had been premature, and that he had been spared to witness the reception by the Corbians of their new Queen, but, at the same time, the grim visitor would at least have put him out of his predicament.
His recovery had not been rapid enough to allow of his attending the festivities of the Coronation, which had taken place with much pomp and circumstance a few weeks after Enrico had been laid in the Cathedral. The kindly doctor, however, had permitted the invalid's couch to be wheeled out on to one of the balconies of his room.
From there he had seen the procession leave the palace, had noted the enthusiasm of the holiday crowd, and, best of all, had seen Galva turn in her carriage and wave her bouquet of orchids at his balcony. Then the cavalcade, winding like a gaily coloured stream of ribbon, had been swallowed up in the twistings and turnings of the old town, and Povey, lying there in the genial afternoon sunshine, had been left to imagine the rest.
By the aid of his field glasses he had seen the bunting and banners fluttering bravely on the buildings in the town, which lay spread out beneath him shining like a jeweller's tray of gems in the sun-rays. He had seen the yachts in the bay gay with little flags. He had heard, too, the bells pealing joyously from the tall belfry of the Cathedral, the firing of the guns on the fort, and the distant murmur of the people cheering their Queen.
He had said a little prayer for everybody and had fallen asleep there on the flower-decked balcony. When he awoke he was again in his room and the candles were being lit.
The Queen of San Pietro stood there before him flushed with her happiness and resplendent in her finery of state. Her little head was thrown slightly back and she appeared taller than she really was in the sweeping mantle of crimson and ermine which fell from her shoulders and spread out on the carpet behind her. As she noted the wondering admiration on Edward's face she gave him a delightful little smile.
"A right down, regular, Royal Queen," she quoted gaily as she dropped an elegant curtsey. "Oh, guardy dear, it's been splendid—just splendid—nothing but sun and cheers and flowers—and joy."
She turned to her husband who was standing a little behind her, for the ceremonies in the Cathedral had been twofold that day, and the Archbishop who had placed the crown on the little head, had, in the little private chapel, placed a circlet of gold also on the Queen's finger.
"I didn't see a single house, Armand," she ran on, "that was not flying a flag. And to think that we owe all this to guardy here. If he had died, and we really thought he was going to, didn't we? there would have been no joy, then, only——"
She had leant over and kissed him and Armand had taken his hand and gripped it hard. Was it any wonder that the explanation that had hovered so long on Edward's lips retired from the unequal contest?
And now as he sat in his bath-chair he remembered all these things, and sighed regretfully as he told himself that there was only one way left for him in honour to take. It was time for him to leave the stage, to take off the motley, for he had no part in the next act of the drama.
The attendant, who in the gorgeous Estrato livery was slowly propelling the chair, pulled up rather suddenly, as, turning into one of the alley-ways which led back to the palace he came in sight of the figure of a woman. Anna Paluda turned at the sound of the wheels on the gravel, and Edward saw that she thrust a paper hurriedly into the black silk reticule hanging by a cord from her waist. Her manner, too, as she came towards him, was, he thought, a little strained. Evidently Madame Anna Paluda had been taken somewhat unawares.
For a little while, after greeting Edward, she walked on beside the bath-chair, speaking of commonplaces, on subjects ranging from the politics (such as they were) of San Pietro to the evening light shining in the western windows of the palace. Then a sudden thought came to the man in the chair and he turned to the lady by his side.
"This chair is quite light, Anna; do you think you could—or better still, I will walk the rest of the distance, it isn't far."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. I know youcanwalk, but you will find the air chilly after all those rugs." She turned to the attendant, "You can go, Juan—I will attend to Mr. Sydney."
With a bow the man left them, and Anna, taking the handle, leant over to the occupant of the chair.
"You wanted to say something to me?"
A moment's final hesitation, then Edward took the plunge.
"Yes, Anna, I wanted to tell you that I intend leaving Corbo for England as soon as the doctor will let me. My business, you know—I've been away from it long enough."
"But you will come back, Mr. Sydney?"
"Oh yes—that is, I——Oh, I'm sure to come back—yes—sure—to—come—back."
Had Edward been facing Anna as he spoke he would have noticed a curious light creep into the black eyes, as though something had occurred suddenly to her. One hand involuntarily left the handle of the chair and caressed the black silk reticule. As she felt the paper under her fingers she smiled.
"But—some one will have to go with you—you have had an illness—it isn't safe, is it, for you to travel alone?"
"Tut, tut, Anna, I'm fit as a cello. Why, I walked twice round the palace this morning; besides, I'm not going to-morrow." Now that his departure had been decided on, and he had burnt his boats, he felt disposed to allow himself the luxury of delay. "It may be a month before I really go," he added.
Again Edward would have seen a look come into Anna's eyes—disappointment this time, unmistakable disappointment at his last words.
But the woman said nothing, and before Edward spoke again the chair had reached the doorway of the palace and footmen were assisting him to alight.
Anna accompanied him up the broad staircase, until he reached the corridor on which his apartment was situated, then she turned and made her way swiftly to her own room. Entering, she locked the door and crossed to the large wardrobe which took up one side of the apartment wall. From beneath some clothes in a drawer she lifted her leather jewel case, and carrying it over to the dressing-table lit the candles which stood on either side of the draped mirror. She selected a tiny key from the bunch at her waist and, opening the case, took out a box, a little cardboard box, which had once contained chocolates. The lid was broken here and there, and had been carefully pasted together with scraps of plaster paper. Anna removed the cover carefully and tenderly, and leant her head in her hands and gazed down at what lay therein.
A baby shoe of white kid, soiled and still showing the shape of tiny toes, a bunch of faded ribbon, a little armless doll with staring beady eyes; and, most pathetic of all, two or three of the original chocolates the box had held—hard and colourless.
The woman raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror. She had not been crying, for her eyes were quite dry, but into them had come a look of determination, of a set purpose in which tears had no place and tenderness no part. She looked again at the articles in the box.
"A little while—not long now," she murmured, "then, perhaps I may weep."
Silently she put away the baby relics back into the wardrobe drawer. Then from the reticule she took the letter she had been reading when Edward had come upon her in the grounds. She smoothed out the creases and held it to the light on the dressing-table. It was headed from the offices ofThe Imparcial, and read—