She heard a few phrases pass between them and then, without lights, the machine suddenly moved forward. The explosions of the engine, muffled though they were, seemed like rifle shots to ears newly accustomed to the silences of the night. But the speed of the motor increased rapidly, and she felt the damp of the river fog brushing her cheek. She could see nothing though she peered into the blackness eagerly. The car was rushing to destruction for all that she knew, yet Karl was driving straight and hard for the entrance of the bridge. Marishka saw the dim gleam of a lantern, heard a hoarse shout, and then the sound of shots lost in the crashing of the timbers of the bridge as they thundered over, the throttle wide, past the bridge house at Bosna-Brod upon the other side of the river, and on without pause through the village into the open road beyond. All this in darkness, which had made the venture the more terrible.
It was with relief that she heard the light laugh and even tones of Captain Goritz.
"That is well done, Karl. Your eyes are better than mine. But I have no humor for a bath in the Bosna, so we will have the lights, if you please."
"They will follow us?" stammered Marishka.
"There is a greater danger of detention at Dervent or Duboj, but I'm hoping the bridge-tender may keep silent. It was stupid of him not to guard the chain."
"You lowered it——?"
"It made a fearful racket, but the roar of the river helped."
A little further down the road, at a signal, Karl brought the car to a stop and silenced the engine, while Goritz got down into the road and listened intently, striking a match meanwhile and looking at the dial of his watch. There were no sounds in the direction from which they had come but the distant roar of the river and the whispering of the wind in the trees.
"It is half-past three, Karl. How far have we to go?"
"More than two hundred kilos—two hundred and fifty perhaps."
"Ah, so much?" and he frowned. "I wish to reach the capital by eight o'clock, Karl," he said.
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann—if it is in the machine. I can at least try."
As Goritz got in beside Marishka, he started the engine, and they were off again. As a sign that at least the chauffeur was trying to carry out his orders, in a moment they were rushing along at a furious pace which seemed to threaten destruction to them all. In spite of an impending storm which had now, fortunately, passed, at Brod Karl had lowered the top of the car in order to make better speed in the final race for their goal, and the rush of wind seemed to make breathing difficult, but Marishka clung to the bracket at her side, trying to keep her balance as they swung around the curves, and silently praying. Conversation was impossible until the road rose from the plains of the Save into the mountains, where the speed was necessarily diminished. The car, fortunately, seemed to be a good one, for no machine unless well proven could long stand the strain of such work as Karl was giving it to do. Through Dervent they went at full speed, seeing no lights or human beings. Beyond Duboj the moon came out, and this made Karl's problems less difficult, though the road wound dangerously along the ravines of the Brod river, which tumbled from cleft to cleft, sometimes a silver thread and again a ragged cataract hundreds of feet below. There were no retaining walls, and here and there as they turned sudden and unexpected corners it almost seemed to Marishka that the rear wheels of the machine swirled out into space. She held her breath and closed her eyes from time to time, expecting the car to lose its equilibrium and go whirling over and over into the echoing gorge below them, the depth of which the shadow of the mountains opposite mercifully hid from view. But Karl had no time in which to consider the thoughts of his passengers. He had his orders. If achievement were in the metal he intended to carry them out. The feudal castles of old Bosnia passed in stately review, Maglaj, Usora, clinging leech-like to their inaccessible peaks, grim sentinels of the vista of years, frowning at the roaring engine of modernity which sent its echoes mocking at their lonely dignity. Marishka could look, but not for long, for in a moment would come the terrible down-grade and the white, leaping road before them, which held her eyes with fearful hypnotism. Death! What right had she to pray for her own safety, when her own lips had condemned Sophie Chotek? There was still a chance that she would reach Sarajevo in time. She had no thought of sleep. Weary as she was, the imminence of disaster at first fascinated—then enthralled her. She was drunk with excitement, crying out she knew not what in admiration of Karl's skill, her fingers in imagination with his upon the wheel, her gaze, like his, keen and unerring upon the road.
Beside her Captain Goritz sat silently, smiling as he watched her.
"It is wonderful, is it not?" he said in a lull, when the machine coasted down a straight piece of road. "Fear is the master passion of life. Even I, Countess, am in love with fear." And then with a laugh, "We shall arrive in time if the tires hold. It is a good machine, a very good machine."
Dawn stole slowly across the heavens between the mountain peaks, an opal dawn, pale and luminous. Here and there objects defined themselves against the velvety surfaces of the hills, a hut by the river brink, a thread of smoke rising straight in the still air, a herdsman driving his flock in a path across the valley. But Karl, the chauffeur, drove madly on, more madly, it seemed, as the light grew better. People appeared as if by magic upon the road, with loaded vehicles bound to market—awe-stricken peasants, who leaped aside and then turned wondering.
The machine climbed a mountain from which a vista of many miles of country was spread out before them, but there was no sign of their destination. Half-past eight—nine——! The roads became crowded again, with vehicles, horsemen, footmen, and groups of soldiers, all traveling in the same direction. Sarajevo was not far distant but they went at a snail's pace, their nerves leaping in the reaction. Marishka, pallid with fatigue, sat leaning forward in her seat, dumb with anxiety. Goritz rubbed his chin thoughtfully. But he had not yet begun to despair. Suddenly the car came to a turning in the road, and the Bosnian capital was spread out at their feet. Goritz looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. If the thing they dreaded had not yet come to pass there might still be time. As they descended the hill into the valley of the Miljacka, it was apparent that the town was in holiday attire. Flags floated from many poles, and the streets and bridges were crowded with people. At the direction of Captain Goritz, Karl drove quickly to the railroad station, where a group of officials stood gesturing and talking excitedly.
"Has His Highness gone into the city?" asked Goritz of the man nearest him.
The fellow paused and turned at the sight of the Austrian uniform.
"Ah, Herr Lieutenant—you have not heard?"
"I have just come down from the hills. What is the matter?"
"A bomb has been thrown into the automobile of the Archduke——"
"He is killed?" asked Goritz, while Marishka leaned forward in horror.
"Fortunately, no. He cast the bomb into the street, but it exploded under the vehicle of his escort, killing several, they say."
"She is safe—Her Highness is safe?" questioned Marishka.
"Yes, but it was a narrow escape," said another man.
"Where is the Archduke now?" asked Goritz.
"At the Rathaus—where he is to receive a testimonial from the Burgomaster, in behalf of the city. From there they go to the Governor's palace, I think."
"Thanks," said Goritz with a gasp of relief, and gave the word to Karl to drive on toward the center of the town.
"'Forewarned is forearmed,'" he muttered to Marishka. "They may not dare to attempt it again. I think you need have no further anxiety, Countess."
"But I must reach Her Highness. I must let her know everything."
"We shall try." And then to Karl, "Go as far as you can into the town, to Franz Josef Street."
But at the tobacco factory the crowd was so great that they could not go on, and Goritz after some directions to Karl, helped Marishka down, and they went forward through the crowd afoot, listening to its excited comments.
"Cabrinobitch——"
"A Serbian, they say. The police seized him."
"I was as near to him as you are. Stovan Kovacevik was hit by a piece of the bomb. They have taken him to the hospital."
"Colonel Merizzi—they say he is dead. And Count von Waldeck badly wounded."
Marishka shuddered. She had known them both at Konopisht. She caught Captain Goritz by the arm and forced her way to the Stadt Park, following the crowd of people and at last reaching Franz Josef Street, which was filled almost solidly with an excited, gesticulating mass of humanity.
"A Serbian plot!" they heard a man in a turban say in polyglot German. "Not Serbian nor Bosnian. We have no murderers here."
"So say I," cried another. "They will blame it upon us. Where are the police, that the streets are not even cleared."
"Why does he come here to make trouble? We do not love him, but we are an orderly people. Let him be gone."
"He was at least brave. They say after the bomb was thrown into his machine he threw it into the street."
"Brave! Yes. But he is a soldier. Why shouldn't he be brave?"
"Courage may not save him. There is something back of this. A man told me there was a bomb thrower on every street corner."
Marishka pushed forward shuddering, with Captain Goritz close behind her.
"I cannot believe it," she whispered.
"The ravings of a crowd," he muttered. "It matters nothing."
But as they neared the corner of Rudolfstrasse, there was a stir and a murmur as all heads turned to look up the street in the direction of the Carsija.
"He comes again." "The machine is returning from the Rathaus." The word flew from lip to lip with the speed of the wind. A few Austrian soldiers were riding down the street clearing the way. They were all. No police, no other soldiers. It was horrible. The sides of the machine were utterly unprotected from the people, who closed in upon it, almost brushing its wheels. Marishka pressed forward again, jostled this way and that, until she stood upon the very fringe of the crowd at the corner of the street. Captain Goritz held her by the elbow. What purpose was in her mind he could not know. But every nerve in her—every impulse urged her to go forward to the very doors of the machine and protect Sophie Chotek, if necessary with her own body, against the dangers which, as the people about her said, lurked on every corner. The machine approached very slowly. There was no cheering, and it seemed strange to Marishka that there could be no joy in the hearts of these people at the courage of their Heir Presumptive, who had faced death bravely, and now with more hardihood than prudence was facing it again. The car was open, and she could see the figures of the royal pair quite clearly, their faces very pale, the Archduke leaning forward talking with a man in uniform in the front seat opposite him, the Duchess scanning the crowd anxiously. As the machine stopped again at the street corner, Marishka rushed forward until she stood just at its front wheels, waving a hand and speaking the Duchess's name. She saw the gaze of Sophie Chotek meet hers, waver and then become fixed again in wonder, in sudden recognition, and incomprehension. Words formed on the girl's lips and she called,
"It is I—Marishka Strahni, Duchess—I must speak——"
She got no further. Out of the mass of people just at her elbow the figure of a man emerging, sprang upon the running board of the machine. He seemed to wave his hand, and then there were sounds of shots. The Archduke started up, holding a protecting arm before the body of the Duchess, who had sunk back into her seat, her hand to her breast. The Archduke wavered a moment and then fell forward across the knees of the Duchess.
Of the mad moments which followed, Marishka was barely conscious. She was pushed roughly back into the turgid crowd and would have fallen had not an arm sustained her. Men seized the assassin and hurried him away. There were hoarse shouts, glimpses of soldiers, as the machine of death pushed its way through the mass of people, and always the strong arm sustained her, pushing her, leading her away into a street where there were fewer people and less noise.
"Come, Countess, he brave," Goritz was saying. "God knows you have done what you could."
"It is horrible," she gasped brokenly. "A moment sooner, perhaps, and I should have succeeded. She recognized me—you saw?"
He nodded. "Kismet! It was written," he said grimly.
"But someone must pay—someone—who was——?"
"A Bosnian student—named Prinzep—a man said."
"He was but a boy—a frail boy——"
"He has been well taught to shoot," muttered Goritz.
"Death!" she cried hysterically. "And I——"
"Be quiet. People are watching you," said Goritz sternly. "Lean on my arm and go where I shall lead. It is not far."
The sight of strange, distorted faces regarding her gave Marishka the strength to obey. Mechanically her feet moved, but the sunlight blinded her. She passed through a maze of small streets lined with market stalls where groups of people shouted excitedly; and dimly as in a dream she heard their comments.
"The police—we have police—where were they? The Government will be blaming us. We are not murderers! No. It is a shame!"
Marishka shuddered and leaned more heavily upon the arm of her companion. She was weary unto death, body and spirit—but still her feet moved on, out of the maze of small alleys into a larger alley, where her companion stopped before a blue wooden gate let into a stone wall. He put his hand upon the latch, the gate yielded, and they entered a small garden with well ordered walks and a fountain, beside which was a stone bench. Upon this bench at the bidding of Captain Goritz she sank, burying her face in her hands, while he went toward the house, which had its length at one side of the garden. She put her fingers before her eyes trying to shut out the horrors she had witnessed, but they persisted, ugly and sinister. Over and over in her mind dinned the hoarse murmur of the crowd, "We are not murderers! No!" Who then——? Not the frail student with the smoking pistol ... the agent of others.... The eyes of Sophie Chotek haunted her—eyes that had looked so often into her own with kindness. She had seen terror in them, and then—the mad turmoil, the dust, the acrid smell of powder fumes, and the silent group of huddled figures in the machine!...
There were sounds of voices and of footsteps approaching, but Marishka could not move. She was prone, inert, helpless.
"She is very tired," someone said.
"Ach—she must come within and sleep."
A woman's voice, it seemed, deep but not unsympathetic.
"A glass of wine perhaps—and food."
"It shall be as you desire, Excellency. I know what she needs."
Arms raised her, and she felt herself half led, half carried, into the house and laid upon a bed in a room upstairs. It was dark within and there was a strange odor of spices. Presently someone, the woman, it seemed, gave her something to drink, and after awhile the turmoil in her head grew less—and she slept.
Dreams, colorful and strangely vivid, but not unpleasant. It seemed that Marishka lay upon a couch so soft that she sank deliciously without end to perfect rest. Above, about, below her, perfumed darkness, spangled with soft spots of light, which came and went curiously. She tried to fix her gaze upon one of them, but it was extinguished immediately and appeared elsewhere. She found another—and another, but they fled from her likeignes fatui. She heard the whir of a machine, fast and then slow again, near and then at a distance. Was it an automobile or an aeroplane? The notion of an automobile speeding in space was incongruous, the milky way—a queer concept! She smiled in her dreams.... Then suddenly a bright sunlight peopled with strange figures in fez and turban, faces that leered at her, lips that howled in excitement, arms that moved threateningly, dust, noise, commotion, from which she was trying in vain to escape.... And then darkness again and the subdued murmur of voices, one voice familiar, one gruff and unfamiliar.
"Ten thousandkroner—that is a large sum," said the gruff voice.
"Yours, Effendi, if the thing is accomplished."
"It should not be difficult. You may reply upon me."
"And you are to show the lady every attention—every comfort——"
"Zu befehl——"
There was a recurrence of the changing lights and the voices receded. Presently she seemed to hear them again.
"She is to be kept in seclusion of course, but otherwise you will accede to all her requests—all, you understand——Should she care to write—you will send a message. There are more ways than one to kill a goose. And this one lays the golden egg, Effendi——"
"I understands—a golden egg."
"Very good—perhaps tonight——We shall see."
"I shall be prepared, Excellency."
The voices died away and melted into the murmur of a crowd, which merged curiously into the whir of an automobile. But it was dark again and the spots of light in the darkness reappeared. One, two, three, a dozen she counted and then they vanished. She was alone, an atom in the expanse of infinity, but the darkness and the perfume now oppressed, suffocated her, and she tried to escape. But she moved her limbs with difficulty, and a weight sealed her eyelids. She struggled up against it and managed to rise upon one elbow and look about her.
She was awake. Slowly memory returned, the memory of things which seemed to have happened a long while before, and time and distance seemed to have robbed them of their sting. She was awake and alone in a dark room, lying on a low couch, upon which were spread a number of pillows of strange design. A latticed window was near, and outside, the shadows of a tree branch fell across the barred rectangle, cutting the lines of light into broken lozenges of shadow. The room was furnished somberly but richly with heavy hangings and teakwood furniture decorated with mother-of-pearl. A lantern of curious design depended from the ceiling. There was a figure standing in the corner. She raised herself upon one elbow and examined the figure attentively, not frightened yet, but merely curious.
It was a suit of ancient armor of a period with which she was unfamiliar. She moved her limbs painfully and sat up. Her head throbbed for a few moments but she found that she was able to think clearly again. Slowly she realized where she was and what had happened. The blue door in the wall—this the house that adjoined the garden. She had slept—how long she did not know, but the beams of sunlight were orange in color and made a brilliant arabesque upon an embroidered hanging on the opposite wall. She must have slept long. Her dreams returned to her, fleeting and elusive, like theignes fatuiwhich had been a part of them. The whir of wheels, the vision of the vari-colored crowd, the murmur of voices speaking—these too had been a dream. She tried to recall what the voices had murmured. Phrases came to her. "Ten thousandkroner—the goose that lays the golden egg——" It was all like a story from a fairy tale. She looked about her—a dream—of course. Who could have been speaking ofkronersand golden eggs here?
There were two doors to the apartment in which she lay, one, ornate with Turkish fretwork, which had in its center panel what seemed to be a small window, covered by a black grille. At the other end of the room another door, open, from which came a flicker of cool light, the soft pad of footsteps and the sound of a voice humming some curious Oriental air. Marishka did not get up at once, but sat among the pillows, her fingers at her temples as she tried to collect her thoughts. She knew that she must think. Everything seemed to depend upon the clearness with which her mind emerged from the fog of dreams. Slowly, the happenings of the last few days recurred—the flight, the wild ride down the ravines of the Brod, Sarajevo, the tragedy, the car of Death! She put her fingers before her eyes and then straightened bravely. And what now? Goritz! What was he going to do with her? She tried to judge the future by the past. She had given herself unreservedly into his hands in the hope of reaching Sophie Chotek before—before what had happened. Their interests had been identical—the saving of life—and if they had succeeded, there would have been no need for anxiety as to her own future. But now the situation seemed to have changed. Failure had marked her for its own, an unbidden guest in a strange country in which she was for the present at the mercy of her captor. She could not forget that she was his prisoner, and the terms of her promise to him came to her with startling clearness. His recantation, his courtesy, his ardent looks had allayed suspicion, but had not quite removed the earlier impression. In this hour of awakening and depression there seemed to be room for any dreadful possibility.
Was she a prisoner? If so, the window was not barred, and she saw that it let upon the tiny garden fifteen feet below. If she could gather the strength, it might not be difficult to lower herself from the window sill—drop to the garden and flee. But where? To whom? She turned quickly, listening for the sounds of the footsteps in the adjoining room, her hand at her breast, where her heart was throbbing with a new hope. Hugh! Hugh in Sarajevo! And yet why not? It came to her in a throb of joyous pride that in spite of all that she had done to deter him, he had persisted in helping and protecting her, oblivious of her denial of him and of her cutting disdain. But would the frail clew of her flight through Vienna be enough to point her object and destination? The memory of his cleverness and initiative in their night ride to Konopisht gave her new hope. Why should he not come to Sarajevo? Between the lines of the note she had written him he must have read the tenderness that had always been in her heart. He was no coward, and the idea of fleeing to England when danger threatened her would, of course, be the last that would come into his mind. It was curious that she had not thought of this before. He would come to Sarajevo if he could—perhaps he was here now——
A heavy figure stood in the doorway regarding her. She could not at first decide whether it was a man or a woman for the wide, baggy trousers resembled a skirt, and the short, sleeveless jacket was similar to that worn by the male Moslems she had seen in the Carsija. But in a moment, a voice of rather low pitch spoke kindly, in atrocious German.
"The Fräulein is at last awake. Does she feel better?"
"Ah, thanks, yes," said Marishka, at last deciding that it was a woman. "I have slept long."
"Seven hours at least, and like the dead. But you must be hungry. I will prepare something at once."
"Thank you. And if I could wash my face and hands."
"It shall be as you wish. If you will but come with me——"
Marishka rose, and as she did so, the door with the black grille opened from within, and a girl came into the room. Like the older woman she wore baggy trousers and slippers, but above the waist, typifying the meeting of East and West, a somewhat soiled satin blouse which might have been made either in Paris or Vienna. The face was very pretty, regular of feature and oval in contour, but the effect of its beauty was marred by the hair above it, which was dyed with henna a saffron red. But she wore a flower at her breast, and in spite of her artificialities exhaled the gayety of youth. She smiled very prettily and came forward with a confiding air, giving Marishka her hand.
"I have been waiting for you to wake up," she said in a soft voice. "I have never known anyone to sleep so soundly."
She laughed like a child who is very much pleased with a new toy, and holding Marishka's hand, looked at her curiously from head to foot. There was something very genuine in her interest and kindliness, and Marishka found herself smiling.
"I must have been very tired," she said.
"I am sorry. You are feeling better now?"
"Yes, but very dirty——"
"Come with me. Zubeydeh will bring food."
She led the way through the door of the black grille, down a short passage into a large room at the end of the house. The apartment was strewn with rugs, and its furniture was a curious mixture of the color of the East and the utility of the West—a French dressing stand beside a stove of American make, a Bosnian marriage chest, a table which might have come out of the Ringstrasse, a brass tray for burning charcoal, a carved teakwood stand upon which stood a nargileh, a box of cigars, some cigarettes, and two coffee cups still containing the residue of the last draught. There were latticed windows inmeshrebiya, which overlooked the garden and street, and piled beside them were a number of pillows and cushions. The room was none too clean, but there were evidences here and there of desultory attempts at rehabilitation.
The girl with the red hair led Marishka to one of the window recesses, where she bade her sit upon a pile of pillows, bringing a basin and an ewer of water which she put upon the rug beside her.
"Ah, I was forgetting," said the girl, and going to the corner of the room produced with much pride Marishka's suitcase. "His Excellency left it for you this afternoon."
The sight of water and a change of clothing did much to restore Marishka's confidence and self-respect, and she opened the bag with alacrity, bringing forth from its recesses soap, clean linen and a washcloth.
While Marishka ate and drank, the girl with the red hair crouched upon her knees beside the suitcase, sniffed at its contents eagerly, and with little cries of delight touched with her fingers the delicate articles which it contained.
"How pretty! How soft to the touch!" And then rather wistfully, "It is a pity that one cannot get such things in Bosna-Seraj."
"You like them?" asked Marishka, reveling in the delight of being free from the dust of her journey.
"Oh, they are so beautiful!"
For all her years, and she must have been at least as old as Marishka, she had the undeveloped mind of a child.
"You, too, are beautiful," she sighed enviously, "so white, your skin is so clear. Your hair is so soft." And then as an afterthought, "But I think it would look just as pretty if it were red."
Marishka laughed.
"What is your name, my dear?" she asked.
"I am called Yeva—they say after the first woman who was born."
"Eve—of course. It becomes you well."
"You think so. Was she very beautiful?"
"Yes—the mother of all women."
"The ugly ones?"
"Yes. We cannot all be beautiful."
"It must be dreadful to be old and ugly like Zubeydeh."
As Marishka brought out brush and comb and a towel, Yeva ran quickly and procured a mirror—a small cheap affair with tawdry tinsel ornaments.
"You will let me brush your hair, Fräulein. It will be a great privilege."
"Of course, child—if you care to."
And while Yeva combed and brushed, Marishka questioned and she answered. The house in which she lived was near the Sirokac Tor. Her lord and master was of the Begs of Rataj, once the rulers of a province in Bosnia, where his father's fathers had lived, but now shorn of his tithes and a dealer in rugs. He was an old man, yes, but he was good to her, giving her much to eat and drink, and many clothes. She must ask him to get some of these pretty soft undergarments from Vienna. And the Excellency. She had seen him twice, some months before through thedutap, when he had conversed with the Effendi in the adjoining room. And was the beautiful Fräulein in love with the Excellency?
Marishka answered her in some sort, listening to the girl's chatter, meanwhile thinking deeply of the plan that had come into her mind. Scraps of suggestion that she had gleaned from her talks with Goritz gave her at least a hope that she might be successful in reaching Hugh Renwick by messenger. "The English always go to the Europa," he had said. There, if Hugh Renwick had come to Sarajevo, was the place where a note would find him. And so, the hair brushing having been successfully accomplished, she asked the girl if there was someone by whom she could secretly send a note.
A message! To an Excellency—a Herr Hauptmann—or perhaps a General—yes. She was sure that it could be managed. She herself perhaps could take it. Had not the Effendi told her that the Fräulein was to want for nothing? And greatly excited at the thought of intrigue, brought a tabourette which she placed before Marishka, then found paper, ink and envelopes and squatted upon a pillow, watching eagerly over Marishka's shoulder. But the girl's scrutiny troubled Marishka. Was she in the confidence of Captain Goritz? And if not, could she be persuaded to hold her tongue? Instead of writing at once, Marishka relinquished the pen and took Yeva's hand.
"It is very necessary for my peace and happiness that the contents of this note should be only seen by the person to whom it is delivered——"
"Ah, Fräulein, it shall be as you say. By Allah, I swear——"
"Do you care enough? I will give you anything I possess if you will keep my secret."
"Ah!" her eyes were downcast and her tone was pained. "That the Fräulein should not believe in my friendship——"
"But Idobelieve in it——"
"Still," broke in Yeva smiling craftily, "I should very much like to have something by which to remember the Fräulein—the pink sleeping garment which is so sweetly smelling and soft to the touch."
"It is yours, Yeva. See," and Marishka took it from the valise, "I give it to you."
The girl gurgled delightedly, and crooned and kissed the garment like a child with a new doll. She was for trying it on at once and, thus for the moment relieved of Yeva's scrutiny, Marishka bent over the tabourette, pen in hand. But before she wrote she called Yeva again.
"There is no entrance to this house except by the garden, Yeva?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, to theselamlik, themabeindoor and this——"
She walked to the side of the room and thrusting aside a heavy Kis-Kelim, showed Marishka a door cunningly concealed in an angle of the wall.
"That leads—where?" Marishka asked.
"To a small court of the next house."
"And the street below?"
Yeva nodded and renewed the inspection of her new present in the mirror, so Marishka wrote:
Hugh,I am a prisoner in a house near the Sirokac Tor beyond the Carsija—a house with a small garden the gate of which has a blue door. I am treated with every courtesy, but I am frightened. Come tonight at twelve to the small court at the left of the house and knock twice upon the door. I will come to you. Forgive me.Marishka.
Hugh,
I am a prisoner in a house near the Sirokac Tor beyond the Carsija—a house with a small garden the gate of which has a blue door. I am treated with every courtesy, but I am frightened. Come tonight at twelve to the small court at the left of the house and knock twice upon the door. I will come to you. Forgive me.
Marishka.
While Yeva was scrutinizing her new adornment in the small mirror Marishka reread the note. She did not wish to alarm her lover unduly, for perhaps after all there were no need for grave alarm.
The intentions of Captain Goritz were perhaps of the best, his given word to liberate her, to free her from her promise and return her to her friends, had been spoken with an air of sincerity, which under other conditions might have been impressive. But some feminine instinct in her still doubted—still doubted and feared him. And in spite of his many kindnesses, his few moments of insensibility to her weariness and distress there in the motor in the flight from Konopisht, and in the railway carriage when he had spoken of Hugh Renwick's connection with hated Serbia—these memories of their association lingered and persisted. She feared him. The failure of their mission would perhaps have made a difference; and the promise of a man whose whole existence was a living lie, was but a slender reed to hang upon.
She straightened abruptly and gazed before her in sudden dismay. Her word of honor—as a Strahni! She was breaking her promise—had already broken it. For she had pledged herself to Goritz—to go with him whither he pleased, if he would enable her to save the life of Sophie Chotek.
But he had failed!But he had failed!She clutched at the sophistry desperately. Goritz had failed. Under such conditions should she consider her promise binding? It had been conditional. Liberty, there in the street below, just at her elbow, and Hugh Renwick within reach! She came to this conclusion with desperate speed, and quickly addressed and sealed the envelope.
Yeva, before the mirror, was wrapped in admiration of her new possession.
"Am I not beautiful in it, Fräulein?" she was asking as she twisted and turned, examining herself at every angle.
"Yes, Yeva," said Marishka quietly, "but it is not a garment in which one goes out upon the street."
"The street!" Yeva laughed deliciously. "I would make a sensation in Bosna-Seraj, I can tell you, attired only in this and ayashmak."
And then seeing the note lying upon the tabourette, she came running with little childish footsteps. "Ah, you have sealed it! And you are not going to let me see?"
"It is nothing, Yeva."
"But I thought——" peevishly.
"How can you be interested in my little affairs?"
"I hoped that he might come and I should see him through thedutap."
"Perhaps he may!" said Marishka with an inspiration. "Could you be trusted to keep this message a secret? To tell no one?"
"I have already promised——"
"Not even to Zubeydeh——?"
"Of course not. Zubeydeh is old and ugly. She would not understand what a young girl thinks about."
"And can you go out without her knowing?"
"By the private stairway. Of course. There is another door below, locked, but I can procure a key."
"Then I too——" Marishka paused and Yeva turned, reading her thoughts.
"Ah, I understand. You wish to go to him. It is a pity, but it is impossible."
"Impossible! Why?"
"I can do the Fräulein a favor, since she has been kind to me, but to disobey the commands of my lord and master—I would call upon myself the curses of Allah."
Marishka pondered for a moment. "The Effendi desires that I remain here?" she asked.
"That is his command, Fräulein."
"I see."
If Marishka had had any doubts as to the intentions of Captain Goritz, the Beg of Rataj had now removed them. How much or how little of what the girl revealed had been born of innocence or how much of design, Marishka could not know, but it hardly seemed possible that the child could be meshed so deeply in this intrigue. Marishka felt sure that Yeva had promised to deliver her note, because the situation amused and interested her, as did her visitor, and because of the pink garment Yeva was now so reluctantly laying aside.
Marishka took another garment from the valise, a dainty drapery of silk edged with fine lace, and held it up temptingly.
"Yeva," she said.
"Yes, Fräulein."
"This, too, is very beautiful, do you not think so?"
Yeva sighed wistfully.
"Yes. It is very beautiful."
"And would you care to have this too?"
"Would I——? Oh, Fräulein! I cannot believe——"
Yeva came forward with arms outstretched, brown fingers curling, but as she was about to touch the garment Marishka swept it away and put it behind her back.
"I will give it to you——"
"Yes——"
"If you will take me out with you by the secret door to the Europa Hotel."
"Fräulein!" The girl stopped aghast and then slowly turned away.
"You would have me disobey the commands of my lord and master?" she said in an awed whisper.
"I am asking only my rights," urged Marishka desperately. "I am an Austrian with many friends. I have believed that I was a guest in this house, welcome to come and to go as I choose. If the Effendi desires to keep me against my will he runs a great risk of offending the government of Austria and my friends."
"As to that I do not know——" said Yeva plaintively.
"It will do you no harm to be my friend."
"I am your friend. But to disobey the command of one's lord and master——"
"It is worse to disobey the laws of Bosnia."
"But what can I do?" asked the girl, helplessly weaving her fingers to and fro.
"You need do nothing but go out to deliver my message. Then you shall appear to lock the door below, but the bolt shall not catch. That is all. When you are gone I shall follow into the street."
"And I shall not see you—and your lover through thedutap?"
"You shall see us there—yonder. I promise you."
"It is a terrible thing that you ask."
"Yeva!" Marishka held the silk garment up before the childish gaze of the girl. "Look, Yeva."
It was enough. With a cry, Yeva seized the garment in both hands and carried it to her lips, kissing it excitedly.
"And if I do what you ask—you will never tell?"
"Never."
Marishka had won. It was with difficulty that she restrained her companion from disrobing again and putting on the new garment, but at last by dint of much persuasion she succeeded in getting Yeva to put on her own garments, her head dress, veil andyashmak, and in a short while they were both attired for the street. With a last look around the room, a short vigil at thedutapfor sounds of watchful Zubeydeh, Yeva timorously found the key of the lower door, pushed the hanging aside, and with a last rapturous look at the draperies upon the dressing stand, vanished into the darkness of the door.
Marishka, her heart beating high with hope, quickly packed a few of her belongings into a small package and followed. It was very dark upon the narrow stair, but with a hand upon the wall to steady herself, she slowly descended. Feeling for the steps with her feet, at last she reached the floor below, and stepping cautiously forward came upon a blank wall. She turned to the left and found her egress stopped—to the right—yes, there was a door. She fingered for the latch and found it, opening the door, which let in the daylight. But just as she was about to step out, she started back in sudden consternation. Upon the step, grim and forbidding, dressed in fez, white shirt, and wide breeches, stood a man with folded arms facing her. He made no sign of greeting, nor did he change his posture by so much as a millimeter, but she heard his voice quite distinctly, though he spoke in a low tone.
"You will be pleased to return at once."
"But I——" It was the courage of desperation—short-lived, alas!
"At once," the man repeated, unfolding his arms. "At once—or shall I——"
Marishka waited no more upon the order of her going but went at once, finding her way up the dusty stairs, terrified, again a prey to the most agonizing fears.
Would Yeva find Hugh at the Hotel Europa?
The night journey of Mr. Renwick to the Bosnian border with the man in black was one long chapter of accidents and delays. But Herr Linke commanded the situation. He had taken care not to return the Englishman's weapon, and there was nothing for Renwick to do but sit in silence by the side of the melancholy Colossus, and pray for an opportunity which never came, for Linke had a watchful eye and sat in the tonneau of the machine. Toward midnight they reached Vinkovcze, where they had supper, and resumed their leisurely journey with a new supply of petrol, which only seemed to increase the trouble in the carburetor. It was at this time that an uncontrollable drowsiness fell upon Renwick. He struggled against it but at last realized that in spite of himself sleep was slowly overpowering him. As in a haze he saw the huge figure of Linke beside him lean over, smiling, while a deep voice which seemed to come from a distance rumbled calmly,
"You are very sleepy, Herr Renwick?"
Renwick dimly remembered muttering a curse.
"You've drugged—cof——"
Then Renwick slept.
When he awoke it was broad daylight. The car was moving smoothly enough along a good road between two mountains, and at the side of the road a river flowed in the direction from which the machine had come.
Renwick felt light-headed and rather ill, and it was some moments before he became conscious of the figure beside him, while he struggled upright and found his speech.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"Near Duboj, Herr Renwick, where we shall presently eat our supper——"
"Supper!"
"Yes. You have slept the clock around——"
"Ah, I remember," and he turned upon the man with a renewed and quite futile anger. "You drugged me, you——"
"Softly, my friend," the big man broke in soothingly. "You can do no good by defaming me."
Renwick shrugged. "You'll pay the score at settling time, nevertheless."
"Perhaps. In the meanwhile I beg you to consider that you are but fifty kilometers from your destination. Since we passed the Save we have proceeded with greater rapidity."
But Renwick had sunk into a sullen silence. The huge creature, whom he had held in such light esteem, had made a fool of him, had reduced him to the impotence of a child. As his mind cleared, the object of the man's actions became more involved. Whatever he was, he had succeeded in preventing Renwick from reaching Sarajevo before the Archduke's party should arrive, but why he should wish to drug a man who was meeting his wishes and giving no trouble was more than Renwick could answer. Still puzzled, he glanced at his watch. It was now five o'clock. The sight of the dial startled him. Had Marishka succeeded in reaching the Duchess or had——? Forgetting his quarrel with Linke in the new interest in portending events, he questioned,
"You have heard from Sarajevo?"
"By wire at Yranduk," said Linke, nodding gravely. "The Archduke Franz and the Duchess of Hohenburg were assassinated this morning in the streets of Sarajevo."
Renwick's knowledge of the plot and the difficulties which surrounded his and Marishka's efforts to prevent its consummation had convinced him that the attempt would at least be made, but Herr Linke's bold statement of the fact shocked him none the less.
"They are dead?"
"Both," said Linke. "They died before reaching the Landes hospital."
"Who——" Renwick paused, aware that names meant nothing.
"A Serbian student, named Prinzep."
The Englishman said nothing more, for he was again thinking of Marishka. She had failed! Had she arrived too late or had her visit to Sarajevo been prevented? And if so where was she now? There was nothing for it but to go on to the Europa Hotel and inquire for the note that she would leave there. In a somewhat desperate mood, he followed Herr Linke into the small hotel at Duboj, for he knew that he could not go on without food, having eaten nothing since the day before. As he hesitated, thegoulashupon the dish before him, Linke smiled.
"You need have no further fear, Herr Renwick," he said calmly. "We are now friends, engaged upon precisely the same service."
"Indeed! And that——?"
"To find the Countess Stranhni at the earliest possible moment."
"And after that?"
"To restore her to her friends."
"You know where she is?"
"No. But I can find her."
It entered Renwick's head at the moment to tell the fellow of the note in his pocket, but the events of the night had made him careful.
"Who are you?" he asked again.
But the man evaded.
"I beg that you will eat, Herr Renwick," he said coolly. "We have no time to spare."
And so at last, when Herr Linke ponderously helped himself and the Hungarian chauffeur from the dish, Renwick followed his lead and ate.
In less than half an hour they were again upon their way, reaching the hills above the Bosnian capital just before nightfall. Here, for some reason, the machine again halted with a loud explosion of back-fire and a prodigious amount of smoke. The chauffeur got out, looked into the hood and straightened, gesticulating wildly. Herr Linke followed, and a conversation ensued, the import of which was lost upon the Englishman. But when it was finished, Linke turned to Renwick and explained that the machinery was injured beyond repair and that the car could go no further. Two Bosnian policemen who had appeared in the road before them, now rode up and made inquiries. Renwick shrugged and was about to walk away with the intention of finishing his journey afoot, when the chauffeur came forward and caught him by the arm, shouting something in an excited and angry voice, appealing to the men on horseback and pointing alternately at the Englishman and at the injured machine. The Bosnians got down and listened while one of them, who seemed to understand, addressed Renwick in German.
"This man says that you engaged to pay for any breakages to the machine, and that you have not paid him all that you owe."
"He lies. I paid him at Ujvidek. Herr Linke here will bear me witness——" As he turned to address his traveling companion, he paused in amazement, for without a word, or a sound, Herr Linke had suddenly vanished into space.
But the Hungarian was screaming again, and what he said must have impressed the policeman who had spoken to him, for he turned to Renwick, scratching his head dubiously, and suggested that the matter be further discussed before a magistrate in the city below. Renwick agreed, gave the policeman his card with the word that he would find him at the Europa Hotel and leaving his suitcase in the car as security for his appearance when summoned went hurriedly down the hills toward the city. The colloquy had occupied some moments, but when Renwick came to a straight reach of road which led toward the tobacco factory buildings he was surprised to find that Herr Linke was nowhere in sight. The man was an enigma, a curious mixture of desperado and buffoon, but his sudden disappearance without a word of thanks, apology or explanation, gave Renwick something to puzzle over as he made his way to the bridge. Its possible significance escaped him until he had reached the river, when, a thought suddenly occurring to him, he put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, feeling for the note from Marishka. It was gone! He hunted, feverishly, one pocket after another, and was on the point of going back for a search of the machine when the truth suddenly dawned. Herr Linke had taken it from him, last night when he slept—had drugged him that he might get it without commotion! In an illuminating flash he remembered the sharp look in the man's eyes yesterday morning in the train from Budapest when Renwick had taken the note from his pocket. Linke! He hurried his footsteps, bewailing his own simplicity and wondering what this new phase of Herr Linke's activities might signify. Renwick had assumed that the Austrian was an agent of Herr Windt, who unable to follow him on to Sarajevo had guessed the train upon which he had left and had sent this man up from Budapest to get into his carriage. But his most recent accomplishment seemed to leave this presumption open to doubt. If Herr Linke had stolen the letter in the belief that it contained secret information which would be of value to Austrian secret service officials, the mere reading of it would have convinced him of its innocence in so far as Marishka was concerned. And if a forgery! Perhaps something in the message which Renwick had overlooked would put him upon the track of the fellow of the green limousine. He went along the river bank from the bridge toward the hotel, the location of which was familiar to him, hurrying his pace. At any rate the note was gone and with it the mysterious Linke, facts which clearly indicated one purpose. Herr Linke was bent upon intercepting any message which might come to the Hotel Europa for the Englishman. And given that to be his purpose, what was his intention with regard to the Countess Strahni?
Still puzzling over the mysteries, which gained in elusiveness as he hurried into Franz Josef Street, he reached the hotel, which was near the Carsija, and made hurried inquiries of the Turkish porter, who smiled and professed ignorance, but said to the Excellency that he would diligently inquire, bringing Renwick at last to the major-domo, who informed him that a note bearing the name of Herr Renwick had been left at the hotel an hour before, but that not twenty minutes ago, Herr Renwick had called and claimed it.
"That is not possible," said Renwick hotly, "since I am Herr Renwick."
The major-domo shrugged and bowed obsequiously. It was most unfortunate, he said, but of course as Excellency must know, the Hotel Europa was not a postoffice and could not be held responsible for the proper delivery of letters when it knew nothing of the identity of those to whom they were addressed.
Renwick paused a moment, and then said quickly, "To whom was the note delivered? You saw?"
"Yes, Excellency. The person who said he was Herr Renwick was tall, attired in black clothing, and carried an umbrella."
"Who brought the note?"
"As to that—I do not know."
The major-domo moved majestically away, but the Turkish porter who stood listening, broke in.
"If your Excellency will permit. It was I who received the note, late this afternoon. It was brought by a woman in ayashmak—a Turkish woman. Of course I could not know her, since one looks with averted eyes upon the women of Islam, but she would have come from the Turkish quarter of the town—from beyond the Carsija—perhaps. I do not know. I can say no more."
Renwick paused irresolutely and giving the man a fee, went out of the hotel into the street, mingling with the crowds upon Franz Josef Street, where but a few hours before on a nearby corner, the Archduke and Duchess had met their deaths. Deciding that at all hazards he must remain inconspicuous while he thought out a plan, he crossed the river and went into a small park, where he sank wearily into a bench and buried himself in new speculations.
A pipe and tobacco soothed, if they failed to stimulate his faculties. He had reached animpasse. What if the Enigma in black were playing some deep game of his own with regard to Marishka? What if, after all, he was no agent of Herr Windt, but represented perhaps the military party of Austria, which had as deep an interest in Marishka's silence as had the Wilhelmstrasse? And yet such a theory was hardly plausible, for if Linke were interested in Marishka's silence he would also be interested in Renwick's, and this being the case, the easiest way out of the business would have been to have dropped Renwick into some deep pool of the Save or the Bosna while he slept. Herr Linke puzzled Renwick, but reason informed him that the unknown limousine chap was the greater menace both to Marishka and himself. That he held Renwick's life cheaply was indicated by the frequent attempts upon it in Vienna and in Bohemia and the mere fact that he had twice failed was no sign that a third attempt might not be successful. The most unfavorable phase of the situation was that the German agent knew Renwick by sight, and would have every opportunity of following him to some secluded spot—shooting him in the back and escaping into a nearby street before the excitement subsided. What did the German agent look like? He might pass the fellow, elbow to elbow, and the Englishman would not know him. Renwick had no fear of meeting the man on even terms, but the thought of being stabbed in the back or shot at by any casual passer-by was disturbing to his morale. Every innocent bush, every tree was an enemy. What did the green limousine chap look like? A Prussian? With a bulky nose, small mustache, and no back to his head? Or was he small, clean shaven, and ferret-like? How would he be dressed? In mufti? Or in some favoring disguise which might better lend itself to his purposes?
Renwick rose suddenly and, with a careful glance about him, made slowly for the Lateimer Bridge, sure at least, that he had not been followed, and convinced that he must equalize the hazards between this German and himself by playing the game according to the standards of the Wilhelmstrasse. So he found his way carefully into the Carsija, and found a stall where he managed to buy a native Bosnian costume,—fez, white shirt, short jacket, wide trousers fitting close below the knee, sash and slippers. His automatic having been taken by the prudent Linke, he was unarmed, but managed to find a revolver of American make and cartridges which fitted it. With his newly acquired purchases he returned in the darkness to the other bank of the river, where he found a small inn in the Bistrick quarter.
He concealed ten one hundredkronernotes in the lining at the belt of the trousers, and pinned it securely. The remainder of his money, a few fifty crown notes and coins, he put in his pockets with his watch and other valuables, and changed his clothing. When he had finished dressing he examined himself in a mirror. His face was tanned by exposure, and the dust of the journey which he retained gave him a soiled appearance sufficiently Oriental. He was now Stefan Thomasevic, a seller of sheep and goats, which he had brought to the market. He left his English clothing in a bundle in the care of the innkeeper and advising the man that he would return later in the night or at least upon the morrow, went forth across the river again, with a sense of greater security from the observations of any who meant mischief to Hugh Renwick. If he did not know what the green limousine chap looked like, the limousine chap at least could not know him.
As he slouched through the alleys of the Carsija, reassured as to the completeness of his disguise, he smoked a native cigarette, and asked many questions among the keepers of the stalls, squatting cross-legged with them upon the ground and learning much of all matters save of the one with which he was most concerned.
"Few but Moslem people had passed through the Carsija upon this day," they said, "for the terrible happenings of the morning had kept the Austrian Excellencies in their own part of the town and Islam—Islam in time of trouble was always wise to find its company among its own people."
Renwick's task seemed hopeless, but he did not despair, leaving the bazaar at last, and climbing the hill to the old town beyond the Bastion. Here he again questioned every passer-by. "Had the Effendi seen a tall Excellency dressed in black who carried an umbrella? He, Stefan Thomasevic, had sold the Excellency some sheep and goats, but the Excellency had not yet paid all of that which he owed. It was not a matter about which to laugh. If the Excellency did not soon appear in the Carsija, it was a matter for the police."
But no one could help him. Herr Linke was moving with discretion, for it was probable that if such a creature had strolled through the Carsija, there would be a dozen idlers who would have observed and noted the fact. Renwick's chief hopes were crumbling. And yet, if Linke suspected that the note which had been sent to the Hotel Europa was a bait, he would of course act with great caution. It was nearly midnight when, weary and disappointed, Renwick returned from the Kastele quarter in the direction of the Carsija. The houses were dark save for a glimmer of light in an upper window here and there, but the moon had come out, and Renwick, moving silently along in the shadow of walls and houses, gazed about him with the eagerness of despair. For a while he stopped in the angle of a wall, and listened to the sounds of the city below him, the rush of the river below the Bastion, the motor and bell of the electric tram-car, the whistle of a freight locomotive at the further end of the town—strident noises brought from the West to break the drowsy murmur of the Orient, but not a sight nor a sound which could give him a clew as to the whereabouts of Linke or Countess Marishka. The inaction was maddening. In his belt the American revolver hung its futile weight. Had it not been for Linke, he might have had a chance at least to follow the instructions of the note of the Hotel Europa to some conclusion whether for good or ill—it did not matter. If Marishka herself had written it!... She would be awaiting him now—and he could not come to her.... In his stead—Linke the gigantic, the mellifluous....
Renwick turned slowly into a side street, and crouched in the dark angle of a wall, for a motor car was coming toward him. Motors in the region of Franz Josef Street and the river were not uncommon, but as a rule they were seldom to be seen in the hilly region near the Bastion. From his dark vantage point, Renwick saw the car approach and pass him, quietly coasting, and stop a short distance below the angle of the street from which he had emerged. He caught a glimpse of the profile of the chauffeur, and noted the condition of the car. He judged that it had come a long journey, for Sarajevo and the part of Bosnia through which his own machine had traveled, had suffered much from the drought. This machine was covered with dust, of course, but it was also literally spattered with mud. The Englishman watched the machine for a while, but the chauffeur having silenced the engine, remained motionless, in deep shadow, waiting. Of course belated visitors from the European section of the city to the Kastele were a possibility, but the quietness with which the chauffeur had approached, and the eager way in which he now leaned forward in his seat watching themeshrebiyawindows of a house at some distance, excited Renwick's curiosity. Why was the man there? Who was he watching in the house of the lighted window? Had this mystery anything in common with his own? Renwick watched the windows too. A light burned dimly within, and once he thought a shadow passed. The window and the chauffeur interested him, but he was too far away to distinguish the house clearly, and so, moving stealthily, he stole quietly up the hill to a cross street, and turning to the left, in the shadow of a wall, walked rapidly down to a small alley which he took at random, at the end of which he paused for observation. The house with themeshrebiyawindows was now just below where he stood, but opposite him was an ancient stone wall, and in its center was a blue door. There were trees within the enclosure, and he heard the sound of falling water. He found a dark doorway and crouched silently, watching.
Acul-de-sac? Perhaps. Disappointment and chagrin had done their worst to him. He would wait see what was to happen, and if nothing came of the venture he would merely have his labor for his pains. He noted above the wall that there were windows of the house which overlooked the garden. In one of them, in the room which the chauffeur had been observing, the light still dimly burned, but he saw no shadows. Peering out from the angle of the alleyway, he thought he had discovered a doorway or court between the house he was watching and the one below it toward the Carsija, and in a moment fancied that he could distinguish the sound of whispering voices, from that direction; but the shadow of a mosque nearby threw its shadow upon this part of the street, and he could see nothing clearly. If there were men there, they were keeping in the shadow of the wall around the turn of the street, beyond the range of Renwick's vision, but the night breeze which carried the sound of the whispers also wafted the odor of a native cigarette. The smell of it made Renwick wish to smoke, for the suspense and inaction were telling upon him, but he resisted the impulse, sinking lower into the shadow, and awaiting events.
Minutes passed—hours they seemed to the waiting Renwick—and then came the deep boom of a bell, which echoing down the silent streets, seemed just at Renwick's elbow—another—another—until he counted twelve, of the belfry of the cathedral announcing midnight.
He waited, thinking deeply. The machine which had come a long journey? The lighted windows which the chauffeur watched? The whisper of voices from the street below him? There was mystery here. He crouched lower and watched the dark shadow of the arch below the house.