Meanwhile the prince entered the palace and was proceeding up the grand corridor, when a bared sword stayed his progress.
“Monsieur,” said von Mitter, “you have lost your way. You can not enter here.”
“I?” a haughty, threatening expression on his pale face. “Are you sure?”
Von Mitter fell back against the wall and all but lost hold of his saber. “Your Highness?” he gasped, overcome.
“Even so!” said the prince. “The archbishop! the Marshal! Lead me to them at once!”
Von Mitter was too much the soldier not to master his surprise at once. He saluted, clicked his heels and limped toward the throne room. He stopped at the threshold, saluted again, and, in a voice full of quavers, announced:
“His Highness Prince Frederick of Carnavia.”
He stepped aside, and the prince pushed past him into the throne room. At this dramatic entrance there rose from the archbishop, the Marshal, the princess, the Carnavian ambassador, from all the court dignitaries, a cry of wonder and astonishment.
“His Highness!”
“Aye!” cried the prince, brokenly, for his joy at seeing the princess nigh overcame him. “I have been a prisoner of Madame's, who at this moment is marching on Bleiberg with an army four thousand strong!” And stumblingly he related his misadventures.
The Marshal did not wait until he had done, nor did the new Colonel of the cuirassiers; both rushed from the room. The archbishop frowned; while the princess and the court stared at the prince with varying emotions. Before the final word had passed his lips, he approached her Highness, fell on his knee and raised her hand to his lips. He noticed not how cold it was.
“Thank God, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that once more I look into your eyes. And if one wedding day is gone—well, there is yet time for another!” He, rose, and proudly before them all he drew her toward him and kissed her cheek. It was his right; she was, the light of all his dreams, at once his bride-to-be and lady-love. But in his joy and eagerness he did not see how pale she grew at the touch of his lips, nor how the lids of her eyes trembled and fell.
Next the prince recounted Maurice's adventures, how he became connected with those at the chateau, even Fitzgerald's fall from grace. The indignation and surprise which was accorded this recital was unbounded.
The brown eyes of the princess filled. In a moment she had traversed the space of ten years to a rare September noon, when a gray-haired old man had kissed her hand and praised her speech. A young dog stood beside her, ready for a romp in the park. Across the path sat her father, who was smiling, and who would never smile again. How many times had her girlish fancy pictured the son of that old man! How many times had she dreamed of him—aye, prayed for him! The room grew dark, and she pressed her hand over her heart. To her the future was empty indeed. There was nothing left but the vague perfume of the past, the faint incense of futile, childish dreams. To stand on the very threshold of life, and yet to see no joy beyond! She struggled against the sob which rose, and conquered it.
“To arms, Messieurs, to arms!” cried the prince, feverishly. “To arms!”
The archbishop stepped forward and took the prince's hand in his own.
“God wills all things,” he said, sadly, “and perhaps he has willed that your Highness should come too late!” And that strange, habitual smile was gone—forever. No one could fathom the true significance of this peculiar speech.
“But 'aux armes' was taken up, and spread throughout the city.
War! The whole city was in tumult. The guests were leaving the hotels, the timid were preparing to fly, and shopkeepers were putting up their blinds and hiding their valuables; the parks and cafes were deserted. The railway booking office was crowded, and a babel of tongues quarreled for precedence. The siege of Paris was but yesterday's news, and tourists did not propose to be walled in from the outer world. Some looked upon the scene as a comic opera; others saw the tragedy of men snarling at one another's throats.
Two hundred gendarmes patrolled the streets; for in war time the dregs of a city float to the surface. Above the foreign legations flags rose, offering protection to all those who possessed the right to claim it. Less than four thousand troops had marched from the city that day, but these were the flower of the army, consisting of two thousand foot, six cannon and twelve hundred horse. Europe has always depended largely on the cavalry, which in the past has been a most formidable engine in warfare.
With gay plumes and banners, glittering helmets and flashing cuirasses, they had gone forth to meet Madame and drive her back across the range. They had made a brave picture, especially the royal cuirassiers, who numbered three hundred strong, and who were to fight not only for glory, but for bread. Fifty of them had been left behind to guard the palaces.
In the royal bedchamber the king lay, all unconscious of the fate impending. The brain had ceased to live; only a feeble pulse stirred irregularly. The state physician shook his head, and, from time to time, laid his fingers on the unfeeling wrist. To him it was a matter of a few hours.
But to the girl, whose face lay hidden in the counterpane, close to one of those senseless hands, to her it was a matter of a breaking heart, of eyes which could be no longer urged to tears, the wells having dried up. Dear God, she thought, how cruel it was! Her tried and trusted friend, the one playmate of her childhood, was silently slipping out of her life forever. Ah, what to her were crowns and kingdoms, aye, and even war? Her father dead, what mattered it who reigned? How she prayed that he might live! They would go away together, and live in peace and quiet, undisturbed by the storms of intrigue.... It was not to be; he was dying. She would be the wife of no man; her father, hovering in spirit above her, would read her heart and understand. Dead, he would ask no sacrifice of her. Henceforth only God would be her king, and she would worship him in some sacred convent.
The old valet, who had served his master from boyhood, stood in the anteroom and fumbled his lips, his faded eyes red with weeping. He was losing the only friend he had. Elsewhere the servants wandered about restlessly, waiting for news from the front, to learn if they, too, were to join in the mad flight from the city. Few servants love masters in adversity. Self-interest is the keynote to their existences.
In the east wing three men were holding a whispered consultation. The faces of two were pale and deep-lined; the face of the third expressed a mixture of condolence and triumph. These three gentlemen were the archbishop, the chancellor and the Austrian ambassador. History has not taken into account what passed between these three men, but subsequent events proved that it signified disaster to one who dreamed of conquest and of power.
Said the ambassador, rising: “After what has been said, his Imperial Majesty will, I can speak authoritatively, further discredit Walmoden; for I have this day received information from a reliable source which precludes any rehabilitation of that prince. My deepest sympathies are with her Highness; his Majesty highly honored her unfortunate father. Permit me to bid you good day, for you know that the matter under my hand needs my immediate attention.”
When he had gone the prelate said: “My friend, our services to the kingdom are nearly over.”
“We are lost!” replied the chancellor. “The king is happy, indeed.”
“I find,” said the prelate, “that we have been lost for ten years. Had this Englishman proved true, it would not have mattered; had Prince Frederick arrived in time, still it would not have mattered. But above all, I was determined that Madame the duchess should not triumph. The end was written ten years ago. How invincible is fate! How incontestible its decrees!”
In the lower town the students were preparing a riot, which was to take place that night. Old Stuler's was thronged. Stuler himself looked on indifferently, even listlessly. He had heard of Kopf's death.
It was half after five of the afternoon. Six miles beyond the Althofen bridge, in all thirteen miles from Bleiberg, a long, low cloud of dust hung over the king's highway. This cloud of dust was caused by the hurried, rhythmic pad-pad of human feet, the striking of hoofs and the wheels of cannon. It marked the progress of an army. To the great surprise of the Marshal, the prince and the staff, they had pushed thus far during the afternoon without seeing a sign of the enemy. Was Madame asleep? Was she so confident her projects were unknown that she had chosen night as the time of her attack? Night, indeed, when the strength of her forces would be a matter of conjecture to the assaulted, who at the suddenness of her approach would succumb to panic! The prince was jubilant and hopeful. He had no doubt that they would arrive at the pass just as Madame was issuing forth. This meant an easy victory, for once the guns covered the narrow pass, though Madame's army were ten times as strong, its defeat was certain. A small force might hold it in check for hours.
A squadron of cuirassiers had been sent forward to reconnoiter, and as yet none had returned with alarms. The road had many windings, and was billowed frequently with hills, and ran through small forests. Only the vast blue bulk of the mountains remained ever in view.
“We shall drink at the Red Chateau to-night,” said the prince, gaily, to Maurice.
“That we shall,” replied Maurice; “and the best in the cellars.”
Only the Marshal said nothing; he knew what war was. In his youth he had served in Transylvania, and he was not minded to laugh and jest. Then, too, there was injustice on both sides. Poor devil! as his thoughts recurred to the king. Touched for the moment by the wings of ambition, which is at best a white vulture, he had usurped another's throne, and to this end! But he was less answerable than the archbishop, who had urged him.
Occasionally he glanced back at the native troops, the foot, the horse, the artillery, and scowled. From these his glance wandered to the cold, impassive face of General Kronau, who rode at his side, and he rubbed his nose. Kronau had been a favorite of Albrecht's... How would he act? In truth, the Marshal's thoughts were not altogether pleasant. Some of these men surrounding him, exchanging persiflage, might never witness another sunset. For, while the world would look upon this encounter as one looks upon a comedy, for some it would serve as tragedy. Often he lent his ear to the gay banter of the young American, and watched the careless smile on his face. What was he doing here? Why was he risking his life for no cause whatever, an alien, in natural sympathy neither with the kingdom nor with the duchy? A sad, grim smile parted his lips.
“O, the urbanity of the young and the brave!” he murmured.
Maurice felt the old familiar exhilaration—the soldier's exhilaration—quicken the beat of his pulse. He did not ask himself why he was here; he knew why. A delightful flower had sprung up in his heart, and fate had nipped it. Whither this new adventure would lead him he cared not. From now on life for him must be renewed by continual change and excitement. Since no one depended on him, his life was his to dispose of as he willed. Friends? He laughed. He knew the world too well. He himself was his best friend, for he had always been true to himself.
He might be shot, but he had faced that possibility before. Besides, to-day's experience would be new to him. He had never witnessed a battle in the open, man to man, in bright, resplendent uniforms. A ragged, dusty troop of brown-skinned men in faded blue, with free and easy hats, irregular of formation, no glory, no brilliancy, skirmishing with outlawed white men and cunning Indians, that was the extent of his knowledge by experience. True, these self-same men in dingy blue fought with a daring such as few soldiers living possessed; but they lacked the ideal picturesqueness which made this army so attractive.
The sharp edges of his recent fatigue were not yet dulled, but his cuirass sat lightly upon him, the sound of the dangling saber at his side smote pleasantly his ear, and the black Mecklenberg under him was strong and active. To return to Madame's chateau in the guise of a conqueror was a most engaging thought. She had humbled his self-love, now to humble hers! He no longer bothered himself about Beauvais, whose case he had placed in the hands of the Austrian ambassador.
Gay and debonair he rode that late September afternoon. No man around him had so clear an eye nor so constant a vivacity. Since he had nothing but his life to lose, he had no fear. Let the theater be full of light while the play lasted, and let the curtain fall to a round of huzzas! For a few short hours ago he had kissed a woman's hand and had looked into her sad brown eyes. “Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my prayers go with you.” Was not that an amulet? His diplomatic career! He fell to whistling.
“Ah! que j'aime les militaires!”
More than once the prince felt the sting of envy in his heart at the sight of this embodiment of supreme nonchalance. It spoke of a healthy salt in the veins, a salt such as kings themselves can not always boast of. A foreigner, a republican? No matter; a gallant man.
“Monsieur,” he said impulsively, “you shall always possess my friendship, once we are well out of this.”
“Thanks, your Highness,” replied Maurice, and laughing; “the after-thought is timely!”
The sun lay close to the western rim of hills; an opal sky encompassed the earth; the air was balmy.
“The French call this St. Martin's summer,” said Maurice. “In my country we call it Indian summer—ah!” lifting in his stirrups.
The army was approaching a hill, when suddenly a whirlwind of dust rolled over the summit, and immediately a reconnoitering patrol came dashing into view, waving their sabers aloft.... The enemy was less than a mile away, and advancing rapidly.
To anticipate. Madame the duchess had indeed contemplated striking the blow at night. That morning, like the brave Amazon she was, she had pitched her tent in the midst of her army, to marshal and direct its forces. It was her intention to be among the first to enter Bleiberg; for she was a soldier's daughter, and could master the inherent fears of her sex.
That same morning a woman entered the lines and demanded an audience. What passed between her and Madame the duchess others never knew. She had also been apprised of the prisoners' escape, but, confident that they would not be able to make a crossing, she disdained pursuit. The prince had missed his wedding day; he was no longer of use to her. As to the American, he would become lost, and that would be the end of him.
But the Englishman.... He was conscience eternally barking at her heels. The memory of that kiss still rankled in her mind, and not an hour went by in which she did not chide herself for the folly. How to get rid of him perplexed her. Here he was, in the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, ready to go to any lengths at a sign from her. There was something in her heart which she had not yet analyzed. First of all, her crown; as to her heart, there was plenty of time in which to study that peculiar and unstable organ. The possibility of the prince's arriving in Bleiberg before her in no way disturbed her. Whenever her attack was made, failure would not attend it. She broke camp at two o'clock and took the road leisurely toward Bleiberg.
Thus, the two armies faced each other comparatively in the open. A battle hung in the air.
The king's forces came to an abrupt halt. Orderlies dashed to and fro. The artillery came rumbling and creaking to the front, wheeled, the guns unlimbered and ranged so as to enfilade the road. The infantry deployed to right and left while the cavalry swung into position on the flanks. All this was accomplished with the equanimity of dress parade. Maurice could not control his admiration. Madame, he thought, might win her crown, but at a pretty cost.
The Marshal and the staff posted themselves on the right breast of the hill, from whence, by the aid of binoculars, they could see the enemy. From time to time General Kronau nervously smoothed his beard, formed his lips into words, but did not utter them, and glanced slyly from the corner of his eye at the Marshal, who was intent on the enemy's approach. Maurice was trying with naked eye to pierce the forest and the rolling ground beyond, and waiting for the roar of the guns.
Orders had been issued for the gunners to get the range and commence firing; but as the gunners seemed over long in getting down to work, Maurice gazed around impatiently. The blood rushed into his heart. For this is what he saw: the infantry leaning indolently on their guns, their officers snipping the grasses with their swords; the cuirassiers hidden in the bulk of the native cavalry; artillerymen seated carelessly on the caissons, and the gunners smoking and leaning against the guns. All action was gone, as if by magic; nothing but a strange tableau remained! Moreover, a troop of native cavalry, which, for no apparent reason, had not joined the main body, had closed in on the general staff. Appalled by a sudden thought, Maurice touched the prince, who lowered his glasses and turned his head. Bewilderment widened his eyes, and the flush on his cheeks died away. He, too, saw.
“Devil's name!” the Marshal burst forth, “why don't the blockheads shoot? The enemy—” He stopped, his chin fell, for, as he turned, a single glance explained all to him. The red on his face changed into a sickly purple, and the glasses slipped from his hands and broke into pieces on the stony ground.
“Marshal,” began General Kronau, “I respect your age and valiant services. That is why we have come thirteen miles. You may keep your sword, and also Monsieur the prince. For the present you are prisoners.”
For a moment the Marshal was stupefied. His secret fears had been realized. Suddenly a hoarse oath issued from his lips, he dragged his saber from the scabbard, raised it and made a terrible sweep at the General. But the stroke fell on a dozen intervening blades, and the Marshal's arms were held and forced to his sides.
“Kronau... you?” he roared. “Betrayed! You despicable coward and traitor! You—” But speech forsook him, and he would have fallen from the horse but for those who held his arms.
“Traitor?” echoed Kronau, coolly. “To what and to whom? I am serving my true and legitimate sovereign. I am also serving humanity, since this battle is to be bloodless. It is you who are the traitor. You swore allegiance to the duke, and that allegiance is the inheritance of the daughter. How have you kept your oath?”
But the Marshal was incapable of answer. One looking at him would have said that he was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy.
“I admit,” went on the General, not wholly unembarrassed, “that the part I play is not an agreeable one to me, but it is preferable to the needless loss of human life. The duchess was to have entered Bleiberg at night, to save us this present dishonor, if you persist in calling it such. But his Highness, who is young, and Monseigneur the archbishop, who dreams of Richelieu, made it impossible. No harm is intended to any one.”
The prince, white and shivering as if with ague, broke his sword on the pommel of the saddle and hurled the pieces at Kronau, who permitted them to strike him.
“God's witness,” the prince cried furiously, “but your victory shall be short-lived. I have an army, trusty to the last sword, and you shall feel the length of its arm within forty-eight hours.”
“Perhaps,” said Kronau, shrugging.
“It is already on the way.”
“Your Highness forgets that Carnavia belongs to the confederation, and that the king, your father, dare not send you troops without the consent of the emperor, which, believe me, will never be given;” and he urged his horse down the slope.
The army of the duchess had now gained the open. The advance was composed of cavalry, which came along the road with wings on either side, and with great dash and splendor.
A noisy cheer arose, to be faintly echoed by the oncoming avalanche of white horses and dazzling blue uniforms.
This was the incident upon which Madame the duchess relied.
With rage and chagrin in his heart, Maurice viewed the scene. The knell of the Osians had been struck. He gazed forlornly at the cuirassiers; they at least had come to sell their lives honestly for their bread. Presently the two armies came together; all was confusion and cheers. Kronau approached the leader of the cavalry.... Maurice was greatly disturbed. He leaned toward the prince.
“Your Highness,” he whispered, “I am going to make a dash for the road.”
“Yes, yes!” replied the prince, intuitively. “My God, yes! Warn her to fly, so that she will not be compelled to witness this cursed woman's triumph. Save her that humiliation. Go, and God be with you, my friend! We are all dishonored. The Marshal looks as if he were dying.”
The native troopers, in their eagerness to witness the meeting between Kronau and the former Colonel of the cuirassiers, had pushed forward. A dozen, however, had hemmed in the Marshal, the prince and Maurice. But these were standing in their stirrups. Maurice gradually brought his horse about so that presently he was facing north. Directly in front of him was an opening. He grasped his saber firmly and pressed the spurs. Quick as he was, two sabers barred his way, but he beat them aside, went diagonally down the hill, over the stone wall and into the road.
While he was maneuvering for this dash, one man had been eying him with satisfaction. As the black horse suddenly sank from view behind the hill, Beauvais, to the astonishment of Kronau, drew his revolver.
“There goes a man,” he cried, “who must not escape. He is so valuable that I shall permit no one but myself to bring him back!” And the splendid white animal under him bounded up the hill and down the other side.
Beauvais had a well-defined purpose in following alone. He was determined that one Maurice Carewe should not bother anyone hereafter; he knew too much.
The white horse and the black faded away in the blur of rising dust.
For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the coal black mane of his gallant Mecklenberg. Twice he glanced back to see who followed, but the volume of dust which rolled after him obscured all behind. He could hear the far-off hammer of hoofs, but this, mingling with the noise of his own horse, confused him as to the number of pursuers. He reasoned that he was well out of range, for there came no report of firearms. The road presently described a semi-circle, passing through a meager orchard. Once beyond this he turned again in the saddle.
“Only one; that is not so bad as it might be. It is one to one.” But a second glance told him who this solitary pursuer was. “The devil!” he laughed—as one of Tasso's heroes might have laughed!—“The devil! how that man loves me!” He was confident that the white horse would never overtake the black.
On they flew, pursued and pursuer. At length Maurice bit his lip and frowned. The white horse was growing larger; the distance between was lessening, slowly but certainly.
“Good boy!” he said encouragingly to the Mecklenberg. “Good boy!”
Deserted farm houses swept past; hills rose and vanished, but still the white horse crept up, up, up. The distance ere another half mile had gone had diminished to four hundred yards; from four hundred it fell to three hundred, from three hundred to two hundred. The Mecklenburg was doing glorious work, but the marvelous stride of the animal in the rear was matchless. Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on his helmet spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later came the report. One, he counted; four more were to follow. Next a stream of fire gassed along his cheek, and something warm trickled down the side of his neck. Two, he counted, his face now pale and set. The third knocked his scabbard into the air.
Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and drew his own revolver. He understood. He was not to be taken prisoner. Beauvais intended to kill him offhand. Only the dead keep secrets. Maurice flung about and fired three consecutive times. The white horse reared, and the shako of his master fell into the dust, but there was no other result. As Maurice pressed the trigger for the fourth time the revolver was violently wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to be quivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.
“My God, what a shot!” he murmured. “I am lost!”
Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation somewhat like that caused by a sound blow in the middle of the back. Strange, but he felt no pain, neither was there an accompanying numbness. Then he remembered his cuirass, which was of steel an eighth of an inch thick. It had saved his life. The needles began to leave his right hand and arm, and he knew that he had received no injury other than a shock. He passed the saber back to his right hand. He had no difficulty in holding it. Gradually his grip grew strong and steady.
Beauvais was now within twenty yards of Maurice. Had he been less eager and held his fire up to this point, Maurice had been a dead man. The white horse gained every moment. A dull fury grew into life in Maurice's heart. Instead of continuing the race, he brought the Mecklenberg to his haunches and wheeled. He made straight for Beauvais, who was surprised at this change of tactics. In the rush they passed each other and the steel hummed spitefully through space. Both wheeled again.
“Your life or mine!” snarled Maurice. His coolness, however, was proportionate to his rage. For the first time in his life the lust to kill seized him.
“It shall be yours, damn you!” replied Beauvais.
“The Austrian ambassador has your history; kill me or not, you are lost.” Maurice made a sweep at his enemy's head and missed.
Beauvais replied in kind, and it flashed viciously off the point of Maurice's saber. He had only his life to lose, but it had suddenly become precious to him; Beauvais had not only his life, but all that made life worth living. His onslaught was terrible. Besides, he was fighting against odds; he wore no steel protector. Maurice wore his only a moment longer. A cut in the side severed the lacings, and the sagging of the cuirass greatly handicapped him. He pressed the spurs and dashed away, while Beauvais cursed him for a cowardly cur. Maurice, by this maneuver, gained sufficient time to rid himself of the cumbersome steel. What he lost in protection, he gained in lightness and freedom. Shortly Beauvais was at him again. The time for banter had passed; they fought grimly and silently. The end for one was death. Beauvais knew that if his antagonist escaped this time the life he longed for, the power and honor it promised, would never be his. On his side, Maurice was equally determined to live.
The horses plunged and snorted, reared and swayed and bit. Sometimes they carried their masters several yards apart, only to come smashing together again.
The sun was going down, and a clear, white light prevailed. Afar in the field a herd was grazing, but no one would call them to the sheds. Master and mistress had long since taken flight.
The duel went on. Maurice was growing tired. By and by he began to rely solely on the defense. When they were close, Beauvais played for the point; the moment the space widened he took to the edge. He saw what Maurice felt—the weakening, and he indulged in a cruel smile. They came close; he made as though to give the point. Maurice, thinking to anticipate, reached. Quick as light Beauvais raised his blade and brought it down with crushing force, standing the while in the stirrups. The blow missed Maurice's head by an inch, but it sank so deeply in his left shoulder that it splintered the collar bone and stopped within a hair of the great artery that runs underneath.
The world turned red, then black. When it grew light again Maurice beheld the dripping blade swinging aloft again. Suddenly the black horse snapped at the white, which veered. The stroke which would have split Maurice's skull in twain, fell on the rear of the saddle, and the blade was so firmly imbedded in the wooden molding that Beauvais could not withdraw it at once. Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yet Maurice saw his chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength at the brown throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's body stiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched wildly at the steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it. A bloody foam gushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he swayed, and finally tumbled into the road—dead.
As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own there passed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still living, dwelt in a lonely convent, thousands of miles away.
Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness began to steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand was red, and the blood dripped from his fingers and made round black spots in the dust of the road. A circle of this blackness was widening about the head of the fallen man. Maurice watched it, fascinated... He was dead, and the fact that he was a prince did not matter.
It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into lead, and he vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a weight. He was sleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also must be dying.... No; he would not die there, beside this man. He still gripped his saber. Indeed, his hand was as if soldered to the wire and leather windings on the hilt. Mollendorf had said that Beauvais was invincible.... Beauvais was dead. Was he, too, dying?... No; he would not die there. The Mecklenberg started forward at a walk; a spur had touched him.
“No!” Maurice cried, throwing off the drowsiness. “My God, I will not die here!... Go, boy!” The Mecklenberg set off, loping easily.
His recent enemy, the great white horse, stood motionless in the center of the road, and followed him with large, inquiring eyes. He turned and looked at the silent huddled mass in the dust at his feet, and whinneyed. But he did not move; a foot still remained in the stirrup.
Soon Maurice remembered an episode of his school days, when, in the spirit of precocious research, he had applied carbolic acid to his arm. It occurred to him that he was now being bathed in that burning fluid. He was recovering from the shock. With returning sense came the increase of pain, pain so tormenting and exquisite that sobs rose in his throat and choked him. Perspiration matted his hair; every breath he took was a knife thrust, and the rise and fall of the horse, gentle as it was, caused the earth to reel and careen heavenward.
Bleiberg; he was to reach Bleiberg. He repeated this thought over and over. Bleiberg, to warn her. Why should he go to Bleiberg to warn her? What was he doing here, he who loved life so well? What had led him into this?... There had been a battle, but neither army had been cognizant of it. He endeavored to move his injured arm, and found it bereft of locomotion. The tendons had been cut. And he could not loosen his grip on the saber which he held in his right hand. The bridle rein swung from side to side.
Rivulets of fire began to run up and down his side; the cords in his neck were stiffening. Still the blood went drip, drip, drip, into the dust. Would he reach Bleiberg, or would he die on the way? God! for a drink of water, cold water. He set his teeth in his lips to neutralize the pain in his arm and shoulder. His lips were numb, and the pressure of his teeth was as nothing. From one moment to the next he expected to drop from the saddle, but somehow he hung on; the spark of life was tenacious. The saber dangled on one side, the scabbard on the other. The blood, drying in places, drew the skin as tight as a drumhead.
On, on, on; up long inclines, down the steeps; he lost all track of time, and the darkness thickened and the stars stood out more clearly.... He could look back on a clean life; true, there were some small stains, but these were human. Strange fancies jostled one another; faces long forgot reappeared; scenes from boyhood rose before him. Home! He had none, save that which was the length and breadth of his native land. On, on, on; the low snuffle of the horse sometimes aroused him from the stupor.
“Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my prayers go with you!”... She had said that to him, and had given him her hand to kiss; a princess, one of the chosen and the few. To live long enough to see her again; a final service—and adieu!... Ah, but it had been a good fight, a good fight. No fine phrases; nothing but the lust for blood; a life for a life; a game in which the winner was also like to lose. A gray patch in the white of the road attracted his attention—a bridge.
“Water!” he murmured.
Mottled with the silver of the stars, it ran along through the fields; a brook, shallow and narrow, but water. The perfume of the grasses was sweet; the horse sniffed joyously. He stopped of his own accord. Maurice had strength enough to dismount. The saber slid from his grasp. He staggered down to the water. In kneeling a faintness passed over him; he rolled into the brook and lay there until the water, almost clogging his throat and nostrils, revived him. He crawled to his knees, coughing and choking. The contact of the cold with the burning wound caused a delightful sensation.
“Water!” he said, and splashed it in his face.
The horse had come down from the road. He had not waited for an invitation. He drank thirstily at the side of his master. The water gurgled in his long, black throat.
“Good boy!” Maurice called, and dashed water against his shoulder. “Good boy!” he remembered that the horse in biting the white one had saved his life.
Each handful of the cold liquid caused him to gasp; but soon the fever and fire died out, leaving only the duller pain. When he rose from his knees, however, he found that the world had not yet ceased its wild reeling. He stooped to regain his saber, and fell into the dust; though to him it was not he who fell, but the earth which rose. He struggled to his feet, leaned panting on his saber, and tried to steady himself. He laughed hysterically. He had dismounted, but he knew that he could never climb to the back of the horse; and Bleiberg might yet be miles away. To walk the distance; was it possible? To reach Bleiberg before Madame.... Madame the duchess and her army! He laughed again, but there was a wild strain in his laughter. Ah, God! what a farce it was! One man dead and another dying; the beginning and the end of the war. The comic opera! La Grande Duchesse! And the fool of an Englishman was playing Fritz! He started down the road, his body slouched forward, the saber trailing in the dust....
“Voici le sabre de mon pere!”
The hand of madness had touched him. The Mecklenberg followed at his heels as a dog would have followed his master.
Less than a mile away a yellow haze wavered in the sky. It was the reflection of the city lights.
Maurice passed under the town gates, the wild song on his lips, his eyes bloodshot, his hair dank about his brow, conscious of nothing but the mad, rollicking rhythm. Nobody molested him; those he met gave him the full width of the road. A strange picture they presented, the man and the troop horse. Some one recognized the trappings of the horse; half an hour later it was known throughout the city that the king's army had been defeated and that Madame was approaching. Students began their depredations. They built bonfires. They raided the office of the official paper, and destroyed the presses and type. Later they marched around the Hohenstaufenplatz, yelling and singing.
Once a gendarme tried to stop Maurice and inquire into his business. The inquisition was abruptly ended by a cut from the madman's sword. The gendarme took to his legs. Maurice continued, and the Mecklenberg tramped on after him. Into the Konigstrasse they turned. At this time, before the news was known, the street was deserted. Up the center of it the man went, his saber scraping along the asphalt, the horse always following.
Voici le sabre de mon pere! Tu vas le mettre a ton cote! Apres la victoire, j'espere Te revoir en bonne sante.....
The street lamps swayed; sometimes a dozen revolved on one post, and Maurice would stop long enough to laugh. How easy it was to walk! All he had to do was to lift a foot, and the pavement would rise to meet it. The moon, standing high behind him, cast a long, weird shadow, and he staggered after it and cut at it with the saber. It was only when he saw the lights of the royal palace and the great globes on the gate posts that sanity returned. This sanity was of short duration.
“To the palace!” he cried; “to the palace! To warn her!” And he stumbled against the gates, still calling, “To the palace! To the palace!”
The cuirassiers who had been left behind to protect the inmates of the palace, were first aroused by the yelling and singing of the students. They rushed out of the guard room and came running to the gates, which they opened. The body of a man rolled inside. They stopped and examined him; the uniform was theirs. The face they looked into was that of the handsome young foreigner who, that day, had gone forth from the city, a gay and gallant figure, who sat his horse so well that he earned their admiration. What could this mean? And where were the others? Had there been a desperate battle?
“Run back to the guard room, one of you, and fetch some brandy. He lives.” And Lieutenant Scharfenstein took his hand from the insensible man's heart. Pulsation was there, but weak and intermittent. “Sergeant, take ten men and clear the square. If they refuse to leave, kill! Madame is not yet queen by any means.”
The men scattered. One soon returned with the brandy. Scharfenstein moistened the wounded man's lips and placed his palm under the nose. Shortly Maurice opened his eyes, his half-delirious eyes.
“To the palace!” he said, “to the palace—Ah!” He saw the faces staring down at him. He struggled. Instinctively they all stood back. What seemed incredible to them, he got to his knees, from his knees to his feet, and propped himself against a gate post. “Your life or mine!” he cried. “Come on; a man can die but once!” He lunged, and again they retreated. He laughed. “It was a good fight!” He reeled off toward the palace steps. They did not hinder him, but they followed, expecting each moment to see him fall. But, he fell not. One by one he mounted the steps, steadying himself with the saber. He gained the landing, once more steadied himself, and vanished into the palace.
“He is out of his head!” cried Scharfenstein, rushing up the steps. “God knows what has happened!”
He was in time to see Maurice lurch into the arms of Captain von Mitter, who had barred the way to the private apartments.
“Carewe!... What has happened? God's name, you are soaked in blood!” Von Mitter held Maurice at arm's length. “A battle?”
“Aye, a battle; one man is dead and another soon will be!” A transient lucidity beamed in Maurice's eyes. “We were betrayed by the native troops; they ran to meet Madame.... Marshal Kampf, Prince Frederick, and the cuirassiers are prisoners.... I escaped. Beauvais, gave chase.... Wanted to kill me.... He gave me this. I ran him through the throat.... Knew him in South America.... He's dead! Inform the archbishop and her Highness that Madame is nearing the city. The king—”
“Hush!” said von Mitter, with a finger on his lip; “hush! The king died at six o'clock. God rest his soul!” He crossed himself. “A disgraceful day! Curse the scheming woman, could she not let us bury him in peace? Prince Frederick's father refused to send us aid.”
“I am dying,” said Maurice with a sob. “Let me lie down somewhere; if I fall I am a dead man.” After a pause: “Take me into the throne room. I shall last till Madame comes. Let her find me there.... The brandy!”
Scharfenstein held the flask to the sufferer's lips.
“The throne room?” repeated von Mitter, surprised at this strange request. “Well, why not? For what is a throne when there is no king to sit on it? You will not die, my friend, though the cut is a nasty one. What is an arm? Life is worth a thousand of them! Quick! help me with him, Max!” for Maurice was reaching blindly toward him.
The three troopers who had followed Scharfenstein came up, and the five of them managed to carry Maurice into the throne room, and deposit him on the cushions at the foot of the dais. There they left him.
“Bad!” said von Mitter, as he came limping out into the corridor. “And he made such a brave show when he left here this afternoon. I have grown to love the fellow. A gallant man. I knew that the native troops were up to something. So did the Colonel. Ach! I would give a year of my life to have seen him and Beauvais. To kill Beauvais, the best saber in the kingdom—it must have been a fight worthy of the legends. A bad day! They will laugh at us. But, patience, the archbishop has something to say before the curtain falls. Poor young man! He will lose his arm, if not his life.”
“But how comes he into all this?” asked Scharfenstein, perplexedly.
“It is not for me or you to question, Max,” said von Mitter, looking down. He had his own opinion, but he was not minded to disclose it.
“What are you going to do?”
“Perform my duty until the end,” sourly. “Go you and help against the students, who have not manliness enough even to respect the dead. The cowardly servants are all gone; save the king's valet. There are only seven of us in all. I will seek the king's physician; the dead are dead, so let us concern ourselves with the living;” and he limped off toward the private apartments.
Scharfenstein hurried away to the square.
In the royal bedchamber a girl murmured over a cold hand. “God pity me; I am all, all alone!”
The archbishop was kneeling at the foot of the bed. In his heart was the bitterness of loss and defeat. His dreams of greatness for this clay! The worldly pomp which was to have attended it! Life was but a warm breath on the mirror of eternity; for one the mirror was clear again.
The square soon grew quiet; the students and the cuirassiers had met for the last time. In the throne room shadows and silence prevailed. Maurice lay upon the cushions, the hilt of the saber still in his hand. Consciousness had returned, a clear, penetrating consciousness. At the foot of the throne, he thought, and, mayhap, close to one not visible to the human eye! What a checkerboard he had moved upon, and now the checkmate! So long as the pain did not diminish, he was content; a sudden ease was what he dreaded. Life was struggling to retain its hold. He did not wish to die; he was young; there were long years to come; the world was beautiful, and to love was the glory over it all. He wondered if Beauvais still lay in the road where he had left him. Again he could see that red saber swinging high; and he shivered.
Half an hour passed, then came the distant murmur of voices, which expanded into tumult. The victorious army, the brave and gallant army, had entered the city, and was streaming toward the palaces. Huzzas rose amid the blaring of bugles. The timorous came forth and added to the noise. The conquerors trooped into the palace, and Madame the duchess looked with shining eyes at the throne of her forefathers.