"Adieu, my friend."
And with a final wave of the hand Renwick turned and slowly mounted into his third class carriage. The plan had worked and the man, it seemed, had not the slightest suspicion. He was, as Renwick remembered from Konopisht, not infallible, and the ease with which Renwick had accomplished his object and the remarkable nature of his newly acquired information could only be explained by the fact that Spivak was seeking the Russian and not himself, and by the boldness of his impersonation, which had immediately pierced the crust of Spivak's professional reserve. All had gone well, but it seemed an age before the train drew out of the station. Renwick did not dare to look out of the window to learn if the man were still there, and until the bell of the locomotive rang announcing the departure of the train, he was unpleasantly nervous, for fear that a suspicion might dawn in the man's mind which would lead him to pursue the conversation.
Renwick never learned whether Spivak's second thoughts had warned him that all was not as it should be, for instead of taking any chances, the Englishman got down from the train at the first stop and disappeared into the darkness.
It was with a feeling of elation mingled with apprehension that Renwick made his way forward. Elation because of the new crumbs of information, apprehension because of the definite assurance that Goritz still held Marishka a prisoner somewhere within the borders of Hungary. Definite it seemed, for Spivak had spoken with the utmost confidence of things with which he was intimately concerned. The trail narrowed. It seemed as though Providence, aware of past impositions, was bent on making amends to one who had suffered much from her disfavor. The sudden appearance of Spivak, which had seemed to threaten disaster, had been turned by a bold stroke from calamity to good fortune. But Renwick determined to avoid further such encounters if possible. And so, resuming the mode of progress which had been so effective on the way to Tuzla, he walked at night, and slept under cover by day, reaching a town upon the banks of the Danube, where he bought new clothing, a straw hat, a change of linen, and a hand bag with which (representing himself as a grain merchant of Ujvidek), he boldly boarded a steamer upon the river, reaching Budapest without further incident.
It was not until he had passed the Quai and was safely in the Karoly Korut that Renwick breathed easily. He was now safe, finding his way to his immediate destination, the house of a person connected with the English Secret Service, into whose care he confidently entrusted himself.
Herr Koulas was by birth a Greek, by citizenship, an Austrian, and by occupation, a chemist; but his real métier, concealed under a most docile and law abiding exterior, was secret inquiry in behalf of the British government into all matters pertaining to its interests, either social, political, or military. He knew his Hungary from Odenburg to Kronstadt, from the Save to the Carpathians, and Renwick, while somewhat dubious as to the wisdom of his visit under the circumstances, found himself received at this excellent man's home with a warmth of welcome which left no doubt in his own mind as to the unselfishness of his host. Even before the war Renwick and Constantine Koulas had met in secret, so that if trouble came no plan should mar the man's impeccable character in Austrian eyes. And Renwick would not have come to him now, had not his own need been great. But Herr Koulas, having heard the tale of his adventures and reassured as to the present danger of pursuit, gave willingly of his hospitality and counsel, and when he learned the character of Renwick's mission, volunteered to procure him a set of papers which would rob his pilgrimage to the north, at least, of its most obvious dangers. He was ready with information, too, and offered a mind with a peculiar genius for the kind of problem that Renwick presented. The fact that the great Prussian secret agent, Leo Goritz, was involved in the affair lent it an individuality which detracted nothing from its other interest. Leo Goritz! Only last year there had been a contest of wits between them, both under cover, and Koulas had managed to get what he wanted, not, however, without narrowly escaping the revelation of his own part in the investigation. Goritz was a clever man and a dangerous one, young, brilliant, handsome, unscrupulous, who wore an armor of impenetrability which had not yet revealed a single weak link. And yet, Herr Koulas reasoned, broodingly, that there must be one. A weak link! Where was the man without one? The messages from the Wilhelmstrasse! Why had Goritz not returned to Berlin upon the outbreak of the war? What was keeping him in Hungary? He was in the Tatra region? Possibly. Which were the passes by which he might try to go? Uzoker, Dukla, or perhaps even Jablunka. The Russians were already battering at Przemysl—Uzoker Pass was out of the question. Jablunka—that was nearer the German border, but eagerly watched even in times of peace. Goritz would not have dared to try to abduct the Countess Strahni by way of Jablunka! The railroad went through Jablunka, a narrow highway with no outlet for many miles. It was not the kind ofcul-de-sacthat Goritz would have chosen. Dukla? Perhaps. A little farther to the east, of course, but not yet menaced by the Russian advance.
The thing was puzzling, but interesting—very. The abduction of a loyal citizen of Austria—a lady of noble birth—a hurried flight by unfrequented roads and then animpasse! Had Herr Windt blocked the way? Was the lady ill? Or had something else detained them?
Renwick sat in the back room of the small laboratory, his arms folded, his brows tangled in thought, as Herr Koulas, puffing great clouds of smoke from his long pipe, thus analyzed the situation.
"I have thought of all of these things, Herr Koulas," Renwick muttered, "and my mind always comes back to the same point. If I know that Goritz has come to this region, if I know that he has not gone out of it, I also know that he remains. I do not carewhy—my question iswhere—where?"
Koulas ran his long forefinger over the map upon the table.
"It is the map Goritz might use—a road map of the government," he grumbled.
"The center near the top—Poprad—he would get through there with difficulty——"
Renwick had risen and paced the floor slowly.
"I have not been through Dukla. It is accessible?"
"Yes. Svidnik to Przemysl. Rocks—aschlossor two——" He turned. "It was there that the Baron Neudeck was killed—you remember—three years ago?"
"I have forgotten—Neudeck—an Austrian?"
"A German—Neudeck was selling military plans to the Russians—Goritz!"
Koulas sprang to his feet triumphantly—"Goritz! It was Goritz who discovered him——"
Renwick was listening eagerly, and Koulas turned with a shrug. "Nothing much, my friend. And yet—a coincidence perhaps—Goritz, Neudeck, Dukla. Goritz—Strahni—'the center of the map—at the top.' It might be worth trying."
"I shall try it. There is nothing else for me to do. The Pass is used for transport?"
"No. The line of communication is through Mezo Laborcz."
"It will be risky——"
"Not unless you make it so. With luck you shall bear a letter to General Lechnitz (which you need never deliver) as a writer for a newspaper."
"That can be managed?"
"I hope—I believe—I am confident."
Renwick smiled. Herr Koulas was something of a humorist.
"Tell me more of this Neudeck case," asked the Englishman.
"There is unfortunately little more to tell. Neudeck was a German baron with military connections, not too rich and not above dishonesty. Goritz traced the plans to Schloss Szolnok, an ancient feudal stronghold which an elder Baron Neudeck had bought——"
"In the Dukla?"
"—in the Dukla—where some Russian officers were invited for the shooting. They did not know how little they were to enjoy it——" Koulas chuckled and blew a cloud of smoke—"for Goritz shot Neudeck before their very eyes, and took the plans back to Germany. This is secret history—a nine days' wonder—but it passed and with it a clever scoundrel who well deserved what he got."
"And since his death who lives in Schloss Szolnok?"
"I don't know." He laughed again. "You jump very rapidly at conclusions, my friend."
"Time passes. I must jump at something. I am going to Dukla Pass—tomorrow if you will help me."
"That goes without saying. For the present you shall go to bed and sleep soundly. I would like to go with you, but alas—I am not so young as I was and I can best serve all your interests here."
Renwick shook Koulas by the hand and took the bedroom candle that was offered him.
"Good night," he said. "I pray that no harm may come to you from this imprudence of mine."
"Do not worry, my friend. I am well hedged about with alibis. Good night."
The next evening after dark Renwick, now Herr Max Schoff of theWiener Zeitung, supplied with a pass which Herr Koulas by means of his underground machinery had managed to procure, took the night train for Kaschau, which he reached in the early morning of the following day, going on later to Bartfeld, the terminus of the railroad, a small and ancient town under the very shadow of the mountains. Here, it being late in the afternoon, he found the Hungaria, a hotel to which he had been directed, where he made arrangements to stop for the night while he leisurely pursued his inquiries.
Now at last, so very near his destination, he was curiously oppressed with the futility of his pilgrimage. He had come far, braving the danger of detection and death, for he had no illusions regarding the status of an Englishman approaching the battle lines under the guise of a newspaper writer. If taken, it would be as a spy, and he would be treated as such.
Herr Koulas had warned him not to be too sanguine, for the roads out of Hungary were many, and Dukla Pass, merely because of a bit of forgotten secret history, a possibility not to be neglected. Herr Koulas had also warned him that the methods in induction which had been open to him had also been open to the Austrian secret service men who, perhaps, had already taken measures to follow the same scent. And so it was that the golden smile of Herr Windt still persisted in Renwick's dreams by night, and in his thoughts by day. If Spivak had told his story of his meeting with the spurious Moyer, his conversation about Szarvas would immediately identify him as Renwick the Englishman. But however near the two trails ran, Windt's men had not yet come up with him, and, until they did, Renwick knew that he must move boldly and quickly upon his quest. And so at last resolution armed him anew.
It was now approaching dusk, and he cast about for a person to whom he might talk without arousing suspicion, and so he turned into an inn at the corner of the street and ordering beer sat himself upon a bench along the wall before a long wooden table. The few men who sat drinking and smoking gave him a curious glance, and the proprietor of the establishment, aware of a stranger, felt it to be his duty to learn something of his mission to this small town and of his identity. This was what Renwick wanted, and as the man spoke in German, he told with brief glibness his well rehearsed story, inviting his host to join him in a glass, over which they were presently chatting as thick as thieves. He was a newspaper writer, Renwick said, upon his way to the front, and showed the letter to General Lechnitz. But he had never before been in this part of the country and intended to see it, upon the way. It was an interesting town, Bartfeld, a fine church too, St. Aegidius. Had his host lived in Bartfeld a long time?
The man was a native, and very proud of his traditions, expanding volubly in reply to Renwick's careless questions. His father and grandfather had kept this very inn, and indeed for all he knew their fathers' fathers. A quiet town, but interesting to those who were fond of historical associations. Renwick listened patiently, slowly drawing the man nearer to the subject that was uppermost in his mind. It was a short distance to Dukla Pass, a very picturesque spot, he had been told, one well worth a visit, was it not?
"Dukla Pass!" said the man. "A name well known in the annals of the country in the days of John Sobieski, long before the railroad went through beyond; a wonderful spot with cliffs and ravines. I have been there often. In the season, before the war, one drove there—for the view. Now alas! what with the Cossacks running over Galicia, the people had more serious things to think about."
"It is easily reached?" asked Renwick.
"By the road beyond the town—a short cut—a climb over the mountains, but not difficult at this time of the year."
"There is a village there?"
"A few farmhouses merely, in the valley along the streams. The glory of the Dukla is its ruins."
"Ah, of course, there are feudal castles——"
"Javorina, Jägerhorn, Szolnok——"
"Szolnok!" said Renwick with sudden interest. "I have heard that name before——"
He paused in a puzzled way.
"It was the summer residence of Baron Neudeck——"
"Ah, then it is not a ruin?"
"Until three years ago he lived there—in the habitable part—when something terrible happened. No one about here is sure—but the place has an evil name."
"That is interesting. Why?"
"The facts have never been clearly explained. The story goes that Baron Neudeck was in the midst of entertaining guests—a hunting party of gentlemen; that there was a night of revelry and of drinking. One of the servants, entering the dining-hall in the morning, found Baron Neudeck lying dead upon the hearth with a bullet wound in his forehead. The guests had disappeared—vanished as if the earth had swallowed them."
"And the police?"
"The police came and went. It was very strange. Nothing further was heard of the matter. But no one about here will go within a mile of the place after nightfall."
"And the servants—what became of them?"
The man shrugged. "They did not come from around here. They were Germans, who came with the Baron. If the police are satisfied, I am."
The man shrugged and drained his glass.
"The other castles are ruined, you say? Then it cannot be long before Szolnok will share their fate—since it is not occupied," suggested Renwick.
"Perhaps," said the man indifferently, rising with a view to closing the conversation.
Renwick ordered another glass of beer, and sat looking out of the small casement window at the passers-by, thinking deeply.
The inspiration of Herr Koulas had at least set him upon a scent which still held him true upon this trail. The information he had received might mean much or little. German servants? Had Goritz used the servants of Baron Neudeck in unraveling the secret of the stolen plans? Had they been implicated in the affair? Did he hold them his creatures by a knowledge of their share in the guilty transaction? Three years had passed since the killing of Neudeck. What had happened in the meanwhile? Had the title of the property passed to others? Had the Schloss been occupied since the Baron's death, or was it deserted? He evolved a theory rapidly, determining to test it at once. It would perhaps be imprudent to question further this innkeeper, a public character, and it seemed quite probable that he knew little more than had already been told. A visit to the farmhouses in the valley would reveal something. He would go——
Renwick had been gazing out of the window, but his attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of a man at the corner of the street, who stood, smoking a cigarette. There was nothing unusual in his clothing or demeanor, but the thing which had startled Renwick into sudden alertness was the rather vague impression that somewhere he had seen this man's face before. A vague impression, but definite in the sense that to Renwick the face had been associated with something unpleasant or disagreeable. But even as Renwick looked, the man tossed his cigarette into the cobbles and turning on his heel walked up the street, passing out of Renwick's range of vision. The Englishman started up from his unfinished glass with the notion of following, but a second thought urged caution. It was still light outside, and if the stranger's memory for faces were better than his own, a meeting face to face would merely court unnecessary danger. So Renwick returned to his bench and made a pretense of finishing his beer, awaiting in safety the darkness. Where had he seen this man before? He searched his mind with painful thoroughness—wondering if the injury to his head had robbed his brain of some of its clearness. He had seen this man's face before—before his sickness—he was sure of that. Hadwiger, Lengelbach, Linder—one by one he recalled the secret service men. The face of the stranger was that of none of these. Someone—a shadowy someone—out of darkness—or dreams. Could the idea have been born of some imaginary resemblance, some fancied recollection? The thing was elusive, and so he gave it up, aware that if his brain had played him no trick, there was here another confirmation of his hope that he was on the true scent. Were the threads converging?
The plan that he now had in mind was to go over the mountains afoot and make some quiet inquiries among the farmhouses in the valley below the Pass, in regard to Schloss Szolnok. And so as the light had grown dim, he got up and went forth into the street, pulling his soft hat well down over his eyes, and making his way toward the road which led to Dukla Pass. He verified the innkeeper's direction by inquiry at the end of the main street, and as the night was clear, set forth briskly upon his walk over the mountain road, for the idea of spending the evening in inactivity was not to be thought of until all the facts regarding this Schloss Szolnok were in his possession.
A ruin—uninhabited? And with its crumbling, his own hope.... It was no time for despair. Had he not come miraculously from death and traveled safely from one border of the enemy's country almost to the other, as though led or driven by some secret impelling force—some inspiration, some hidden guidon or command? At each turn, at each danger, he remembered he had acted with swiftness and decision, and had at no time been at a loss. Fortune had favored him at each stage of his journey and had directed his steps with rare assurance in this direction. Fortune or a will-o'-the-wisp? Or was Marishka calling to him? He had had the impression of her nearness often—there in the hospital—and since, at Selim Ali's—upon the road. It seemed strange and a little mystifying too, that he had never doubted that he would be able to find her.... And now—if not at Schloss Szolnok—elsewhere.
As the darkness of the mountain road deepened, swift vision came to him. The possible danger of attack ... Out of the gloom of shadowy rocks, he had a vision of men who interposed, barring his way, a man in a cap asking the time. Vienna—the night that he had left Marishka, when the three men had attacked him! The face of the man in the cap, and the stranger of Bartfeld—they were the same!
He could have shouted aloud in the joy of the revelation. The man who had attacked him in the streets of Vienna—this cigarette-smoking stranger in Bartfeld. A German? Who else? Perhaps the man who had shot at him—in Vienna—at the Konopisht railroad station, a minion of Goritz. Then Goritz could not be far away....
Renwick strode down the mountain side toward the distant lights of the valley, like a man in seven-league boots, searching eagerly meanwhile the gloomy peaks above him to his left for signs of Schloss Szolnok. He could distinguish nothing amid the deep shadows of the mountain side. But the lights below beckoned warmly, and finding a road to his right at the foot of the declivity, he went toward them rapidly, knocking boldly at the door of the first house to which he came.
An old man answered his summons, a tall old man with a long pipe in his hand, who inspected the visitor narrowly.
"I have lost my way," said Renwick with a smile, "and thought you might let me have a cup of milk and some bread, for which I will pay generously."
The man in the doorway waved his hand in assent, and Renwick followed him into the house, where his host made a motion for him to be seated. A girl and a woman sat by the table knitting, and an old crone sat in a large chair by the fireplace, in which some embers still glowed. Renwick was hungry, but not nearly so hungry as impatient for the crumbs of information that these worthy people might possess, and so he invented a story while he ate which the girl, who spoke German more fluently than the old man, translated to her elders. The woman at the table spoke a little German and shyly added her share to the rather desultory conversation. Bartfa was not far, only a few miles over the mountain—a short distance by wagon or horseback, but something of a distance for one who was weary and footsore. Herr Schoff had come all the way from Mezo Laborez—and afoot? A newspaper writer? That was a dangerous occupation in times like these.
Renwick, having finished his bread and milk, deftly directed the conversation to the possibilities of Dukla Pass from the Russian point of view as a means of invasion of the Hungarian plain, and it was soon quite clear that this possibility had not been absent from their minds. Renwick praised the effectiveness of the Austrian army which he had seen, and quickly reassured them. For Dukla Pass, as he had heard, was but a slit in the mountains, which the Austrians could easily defend. A few guns upon the rocks, and a million Cossacks could not break through.
It was encouraging, the man put in in his patois, for they had been greatly disturbed by rumors among the country-folk and many soldiers already had passed through.
"It is a place of historical interest," said Renwick easily, "aSchlossor two perhaps."
"Javorina—Jägerhorn, yes—but mere ruins, long ago the property of the Rakoczi family. And Szolnok——" Here the man paused, glanced at the girl and the woman, and they both made the sign of the cross with their forefingers at their breasts.
In the slight period of embarrassment which followed, Renwick regarded them with a new interest. The old crone at the fireside, who had been leaning forward with a hand cupped at her ear, caught the significance of the gesture and solemnly imitated them.
"Ah, I remember now," said Renwick with an air of seriousness which matched their own. "Was it not at Szolnok that Baron Neudeck was killed?"
The old man glanced at the others before speaking.
"Yes. It was there," he said quietly.
"And the place is no longer occupied?" asked the Englishman.
No one replied.
"There is a mystery attached to Schloss Szolnok?" asked Renwick, lighting his pipe.
"He asks if there is a mystery," said the woman dully. And then followed as before the strange ceremony of the cross.
"I am a stranger in these parts," Renwick went on, "and no mischief maker. This story interests me. I should like to know——" He paused again as the old man leaned forward toward him, and laid his skinny forefinger along Renwick's knee.
"It is the abode of the devil," he whispered, and then crossed himself again.
"Ah—something mysterious——"
"It is not a matter which we talk about in this house. We are poor, hard-working people who fear God. But strange things are happening up yonder night after night. Here in the valley, we no longer go near by day—nor even look."
"Ah, I see. Then the place has long been unoccupied?"
The old man was silent, but the woman, gathering confidence, took up the story.
"It was always a place of mystery—even in the days of Baron Neudeck, who was an evil man. The servants were strangers to our people and spoke not at all. They never came into the valley."
"And they did not come for food—for milk, eggs, butter?"
"Szolnok farm was above the Schloss upon the mountain side. They had what they needed."
"Ah, I understand. And since the death of the Baron?"
"We do not know. We do not go there. Two years ago a young man from this village went there seeking a sheep which had gone astray. He never came back. And the sheep skin was found some days later at the foot of the precipice. And scarcely a month ago, a venturesome young man from Bartfa climbed the road to the castle in the dead of night on a wager. What he saw no one will ever know, for he came running down the road to his companion stricken with terror, and has never spoken of the matter from that day to this. It was a ghost he saw, they say——"
"Or a devil," put in the old man.
"And by day? You see no one?"
"The Schloss is well within the gorge. I do not go to look, my friend."
"Have there been no lights at night for three years?"
"None that I remember—until now."
"Then it is only for a month or more that they have been seen?"
"Perhaps. I do not know."
The man was growing reticent and his family followed his example. The character of the occupants of Szolnok was not a popular topic for conversation in Dukla Valley. But this man could help Renwick, and he determined to use him. And so as the woman bade him good night and went upstairs, Renwick rose and went to the door, where the old man followed him.
"It is late, my friend," he said, "and a weary walk for me to Bartfa. I will pay you well for a bed."
"Willingly, if we but had the room——"
"Or a pallet of straw in your stable. I am not fastidious."
"Ah, as to that, of course. It can be managed." Renwick took out a hundred-kronernote, and held it before the man's eyes.
"If you will do as I ask I will give you this."
"And what is that?"
"A place in your stable tonight—breakfast at three in the morning, and the clothing you now stand in——"
"My clothing?"
"No questions asked, and silence. Do you agree?"
"But I do not understand."
"It is not necessary that you should. I shall do you no harm."
"A hundredkroner—it is a large sum——"
"Yours—if you do what I ask——" And he thrust the note into the old man's fingers.
This bound the bargain.
The night and day which followed the terrible events in the house of the Beg of Rataj were like an evil dream to Marishka Strahni. She slept, she awoke, always to be hurried on by her relentless captors, too ill to offer resistance or any effort to delay them. Hugh Renwick was dead. All the other direful assurances as to her own fate were as nothing beside that dreadful fact. And Goritz—the man who sat beside her—Hugh's murderer! Fear—loathing—she seemed even too weak and ill for these, lying for the first part of their long journey, inert and helpless. The man beside her watched her furtively from time to time, venturing attention and solicitude for her comfort, but she did not reply to his questions or even look at him. At the house of Selim Ali she recovered some of her strength, and again upon the following night, at a small inn not far from the Serbian border, she fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, from which she was aroused with difficulty. The machine was stopped frequently, and its occupants were questioned, but in each case Captain Goritz produced papers from his pocket, which let them pass. They were now well within the borders of Hungary, and as the girl grew stronger, courage came, and with it the thought of escape. But in spite of her apparent helplessness she was aware that her captors were watching her carefully, permitting no conversation with anyone, locking the doors of the rooms in which she slept, at the houses where they stopped, and taking turns at keeping guard outside. But their very precautions gave her an appreciation of the risks that they ran. She was a prisoner in her own country. All those she passed upon the road were her friends. She had only to make her identity known, and the object of her captors, to gain her freedom. She was somewhere in eastern Hungary, but just where she did not know. The chauffeur spoke the language fluently, and Marishka's ignorance of it made her task more difficult. But one night at an inn in a small village, she found a girl who spoke German, and in a moment when the attention of her guards was relaxed, she managed to make the girl understand, promising her a sum of money if she would summon the police of the town, to whom Marishka would tell her story. The girl agreed, and in the early morning just as the machine came around to the door Goritz found himself confronted by two men in uniform.
Marishka, who had been waiting, trembling, in her room above, came running down the stairs and threw herself upon their mercy, telling her story and begging their intercession.
But even as she spoke she realized that the very wildness of her narrative was against its verity in the minds of these rustic policemen.
"It is an extraordinary tale," said the elder man, "and one which of course must be investigated—an abduction!"
"If you will permit me," said Goritz smiling calmly. "This lady is my wife. I am taking her to the north for the baths. As you observe, she is the subject of delusions——"
"It is not true," cried Marishka despairingly. "I beseech you to listen—to investigate——"
"I regret," said Goritz, with a glance at his watch, "that I have no time to delay. I am Lieutenant von Arnstorf of the Fifteenth Army Corps, bearing a safe conduct from General von Hoetzendorf, which all police officers of the Empire are constrained to respect. Read for yourself."
And he handed them the magic paper which already had done him such service. The men read it through with respect and not a little awe, bestowing at the last a pitying glance upon Marishka, which too well indicated their delicacy in interfering in the affairs of one in such authority.
"And you will not summon the mayor? What I tell is the truth. In the name of the Holy Virgin, I swear it."
One of the men crossed himself and turned away. Goritz had already laid his fingers firmly upon her arm and guided her toward the machine.
"Come, Anna," he said in a sober, soothing tone, "all will be well—all will be well."
And so Marishka, with one last despairing glance in the direction of the two officers, permitted herself to be handed into the machine by Captain Goritz who, before the automobile departed, handed a piece of money to the girl who had done Marishka this service. The last glimpse that Marishka had of the police officers showed them standing side by side, their fingers at their caps. Her case was hopeless. She had no friend, it seemed, in all Hungary, and she abandoned herself to the depths of her despair. How could she have expected to cope with such a man as this?
Goritz said nothing to her of warning or of reproach, but in the same afternoon, after drinking a cup of coffee which he urged upon her, she became drowsy and slept.
She awoke in a large room with walls of panelled wood, and a groined ceiling. She lay upon a huge bed, raised high above the floor, over the head of which was a faded yellow silken hanging. Her surroundings puzzled her, but she seemed to have no desire to learn the meaning of it all, lying as one barely alive, gazing half conscious toward the narrow Gothic window near by, through which she had a glimpse of mountains and blue sky. But the sunlight which fell in patches upon the Turkey rug dazzled her aching eyes, and she closed them painfully. She felt wretchedly ill. Her throat was parched, and her body was so weak that even to move her hand had been an effort. She slept again, woke and slept again, aware now, even in her stupor, of someone moving near her in the room. At last with all the will-power left at her command, she opened wide her eyes and raised herself upon an elbow. It was night, but lamps upon two tables shed a generous glow.
As she moved, a figure that had sat near the foot of the bed, rose and came toward her. It was a very old woman with a wrinkled face and the inturned lips of the toothless. But her face was kindly, and her voice when she spoke had in it a note of commiseration.
"The Excellency is feeling stronger?" she asked.
"I—I do not know," said Marishka painfully struggling to make her lips enunciate. "I—I still feel ill. What is this place?"
"Schloss Szolnok, Excellency, in the Carpathians." She laid her rough hand over Marishka's. "You have some fever. I will get medicine."
"A—a glass of water——"
"At once." The woman moved away into the shadows and Marishka tried to focus her eyes upon the objects in the room—large chests of drawers, and tables, a cheval glass, aprie-dieu, a carved escritoire with ormolu mountings, a French dressing table, portraits let into the panelling, massive oaken chairs, well upholstered—a room of some grandeur. Schloss Szolnok? What mattered it where she was? Death at Schloss Szolnok could be no worse than death elsewhere. Weakness overpowered her, and she sank back into her pillow, aware of her throbbing temples and a terrible pain that racked her breast. Death. Hugh, too. He was calling to her. She would come. Hugh! With his name upon her lips she sank again into unconsciousness.
For weeks, the very weeks that Hugh Renwick lay in the Landes Hospital, Marishka lay upon the tall bed in the great room at Schloss Szolnok, struggling slowly back to life from the clutches of pneumonia. There was a doctor brought from Mezo Laborcz, who stayed in the castle for a week until the danger point had passed, and then came every few days until the patient was well upon the road to recovery. Marishka did not learn of this until much later when, convalescent, she sat by the window, looking out over the sunlit mountains beyond the gorge, and then in wonder and something of disappointment that Goritz had not permitted her to die. And when the old woman, who bore the name of Ena, related that the Herr Hauptmann had himself driven the automobile which brought the doctor in the dead of night to Szolnok, the wonder grew. Marishka had learned to think of Goritz as one interested only in her death or imprisonment, and after Sarajevo she had even believed that her life while in his keeping had hung by a hair. He had killed Hugh, brought her into this far country against her will, had even drugged her that he might avoid a repetition of her attempt at escape. And now he was sparing no pains to bring her back to health, daily sending her messages of good will and good wishes, with flowers from the garden in the courtyard, which, as Ena had reported, he had plucked with his own hand. It was monstrous!
A few mornings ago he had written her a note saying that he awaited her pleasure, craving the indulgence of a visit at the earliest moment that she should care to see him. Marishka, much to Ena's chagrin, had sent no reply. The very thought of kindness from such a man as Goritz—a kindness which was to pay for Hugh's death and her favor, made a mockery of all the beauties of giving—a mockery, too, of her acceptance of them, whether tacitly or otherwise. A man who could kill without scruple, a woman-baiter, courteous that he might be cruel, tolerant that he might torment! By torture of her spirit and of her body he had brought her near death that he might gain the flavor of saving her from it.
He was of a breed of being with which her experience was unfamiliar. The note of sentiment in his notes, while it amazed, bewildered and frightened her a little. She was completely in the man's power. What was Schloss Szolnok? Who was its owner? Ena would not talk; she had received instructions. Before her windows was spread a wonderful vista of mountains and ravines, which changed hourly in color, from the opalescent tints of the dawn, through the garish spectrum of daylight to the deep purple shadows of the sunset, to the crepuscular opalescence again. Under any other conditions, she would have been content to sit and muse alone with her grief—and Hugh. He was constantly present in her thoughts. It was as though his spirit hovered near. She seemed to hear him speak, to feel the touch of his hand upon her brow, soothing her anguish, praying her to wait and be patient. Sometimes the impression of his presence beside her was so poignant that she started up from her chair and looked around the vast room, as though expecting him to appear in the spirit beside her. And then realizing that the illusions were born of her weakness, she would sink back exhausted, and resume her gaze upon the restful distance.
Ena, her nurse, was very kind to her, leaving nothing undone for her comfort, sitting most of the while beside her, and prattling of her own youth and the Fatherland. And so, sure of the woman's growing interest and affection, she slowly revealed the story of Konopisht Garden, her share in it, and the events that had followed. Marishka could see that the woman was greatly impressed by the story which lost no conviction from the pallid lips which told it. And of her own volition, that night, Ena promised the girl to reveal no word of her confidences, and gave unreservedly the outward signs of her friendship for the tender creature committed to her care. She had believed that the kindness of the Herr Hauptmann had meant the beginnings of a romance. But she understood, and aware of the sadness of the sick woman's thoughts, did what she could to delay a meeting which she knew must be painful.
In reply to Marishka's questions, now, she was less reticent, and told of the long years at Schloss Szolnok under the Barons Neudeck, father and son, of the coming of Herr Hauptmann Goritz, and of the threat which had hung over them for three years since the dreadful night when her young master had been killed. There had been no heirs to the estate and no one knew to whom the half-ruined Schloss belonged, but each month money had arrived from Germany, and so she and Wilhelm Strohmeyer, her man, and two other servants under orders from Germany, had remained. She had lived here almost all her life. The people in the village a mile away were the nearest human folk, and Baron Neudeck had not endeared himself to them, for once he had beaten a farmer who had questioned the Excellency's right to shoot upon his land. And so the country people passed aside and did not venture up the mountain road which indeed had become overgrown with verdure. And for their part the servants were contented to stay alone. It was very quiet, but as good a place to die in as any other.
Marishka listened calmly, trying to weave the complete story and Captain Goritz's part in it. Whether Schloss Szolnok was or was not the property of the German government—and it seemed probable that it would have been confiscated upon the discovery of Baron Neudeck's treachery—the fact was clear that Goritz was now its occupant and master. She had not dared to wonder what was still in store for her at the hands of Captain Goritz, and had lived from day to day in the hope that something might happen which would end her imprisonment and martyrdom. She heard nothing from the outside, and Ena, who had long ago given up the world, was in no position to inform her.
But as she gained her strength, Marishka knew that she could not longer deny herself to Captain Goritz. The mirror showed her that her face, while thin and wan, was still comely. Wisdom warned her that however much she loathed the man, every hope of liberty hung upon his favor. And so she gained courage to look about her and to plan some means of outwitting him or some mode of escape from durance. The latter alternative seemed hopeless, for it seemed that the castle was built upon a lonely crag, its heavy walls, which dated from feudal times, imbedded in the solid rock. From her bedroom window, below the buttressed stone, were precipitous cliffs which fell sheer and straight to the rocky bed of the stream which rushed through the ravine two hundred meters below. But there would be other modes of egress, and so, feeling that her strength was now equal to the task, she determined to go forth and test the cordon which constrained her. One morning, therefore, she called Ena's attention to her pallid face and suggested the sunlight of the garden as a means to restoration. The woman was delighted, and attired in a costume of soft white silk crepe, which she had fashioned in her convalescence from some posthumous finery that Ena had discovered, Marishka walked forth of her room down a stone stairway into the great hall of the castle; and so into the ancient courtyard where the flower garden was. She had expected Captain Goritz to join her, and in this surmise she was not mistaken, for she had culled an armful of blossoms which she sent to her room by Ena when the German appeared. She heard his voice behind her, even before she had summoned courage for the interview.
"My compliments upon your appearance, Countess," he said soberly. "I hope that you find yourself well upon the road to recovery."
"Thanks," she replied in a stifled tone. "I am feeling much stronger."
"It has been a very pitiful experience for you—one which has caused me many qualms of conscience," he muttered, "but I have tried to atone and would beg you to believe that all my happiness for the future depends upon your forgiveness."
"I can—never forgive—never——" said Marishka, her throat closing painfully. "I hoped to die," she sighed, "but even that you denied me."
"I have only done my duty—my duty, Countess—a sweeter duty than that which urged me to Vienna—to undo the wrong that I have done you, to bring again the roses into your cheeks."
She waved her hand in deprecation. "For your courtesy, for the kindness of your servants, I thank you. But for what you are yourself—only the God that made you can understand—can forgive—that."
He straightened a moment and then slowly leaned against the wall beside her, his chin cupped in his hand.
"You are cruel——"
"I am truthful. Anything else from me to you would be beneath my womanhood. I would kill you if I had the strength or if I dared." She gave a bitter laugh. "It is at least something, that we understand each other."
He paused a long moment before replying.
And then, "Dowe understand each other? I hope that you will permit me to speak a few words in extenuation of a person you have never known—of Leo Goritz, the man."
"A man who makes war upon a woman—who uses violence to compel obedience——"
"A woman—but an enemy to my country. Between my duty to Germany and my own inclinations, I had no choice. I was an instrument of the State, pitiless, exact and exacting. You have spoken the truth. So shall I. Had my duty to Germany required it of me, I should have killed you with my own hand—even if you had been my sister."
She gazed at him with alien eyes.
"It is monstrous! I would to God you had."
He bowed.
"That is merely my official conception of my obligation to the Fatherland," he said quietly.
She still gazed at him unbelieving, but he met her glance squarely.
"You need not believe me unless you choose, but I speak the truth. My orders were to bring you safely into Germany, or to—to eliminate you. Perhaps you will understand now my difficulties in keeping you unscathed."
"My death would have relieved you of that responsibility. It would have been so easy to have let me die——"
"I could not!" He bent his head over his folded arms. "I could not," he repeated. And then, after a silence, "Countess Strahni, I beg that you will consider that I have succeeded so far in saving you from personal danger."
"And yet you used me as a shield to save yourself from the bullets of the man you killed——" She broke off, laughing bitterly.
"He would not fire. I knew it. He was a fool to give me the chance. I took it. There was nothing else——"
"It was murder. And you——"
She glanced at him once and then turning away, hid her head in her arm. "O God!" she whispered, as though to herself. "How I loathe you!"
Though the words were not even meant for him to hear, he did not miss them.
"That is your privilege," he said after a moment, "and mine—to—to adore you," he said in deep accents.
Slowly she lowered her hands and gazed at him with eyes that though they looked, seemed to see not.
"You—you—! You care forme!" She dropped her hands to her sides, and then with a voice that sought steadiness in its contempt, "What object has the Fatherland to gain by this new hypocrisy, Herr Goritz?"
He stood stock still, making no effort to approach her.
"I think you do me some injustice," he said.
"Injustice!" she said coldly. "Idoyouinjustice? I think you forget."
"If you will permit—it is only fair at least that you should listen. Even if what I say does not interest you."
She waved a hand in a gesture of deprecation—but he went on rapidly in spite of her protest, with an air of pride, which somehow robbed the confession of its sincerity.
"Your words have been cruel, Countess, but the cruelest were those in which you attribute the highest motive of my life to the baseness of hypocrisy. I have done many wrongs, broken many oaths, sinned many sins—in the interests of my country—the service of which has been the only aim of my existence. I have been entrusted by the Emperor himself with missions which would have tested the courage of any man, and I have not failed. That is my pride—the glory of my manhood, for the means of accomplishment no matter how unworthy, are unimportant compared with the great mission of the Germanic race in the betterment of humanity."
"I fail to see, Herr Hauptmann, how——"
He commanded her silence with an abrupt gesture.
"If you will be pleased to bear with me a little longer.Bitte.I shall not be very long. I merely wanted you to understand how my whole life has been devoted to the great uses of the State, with the most unselfish motives. I have been not a human sentient being, but a highly specialized physical organism to which any wish, any emotion, unless of service to the state, was forbidden. Charity, kindness, altruism, all the gentler emotions—I foreswore them. I relinquished friendship. I became a pariah, an outcast, save to those few beings from whom I took my orders, and to them I was merely the piece of machinery which always accomplished its tasks. I have had no happiness, no friendships, no affection, but I am the most famous secret agent in Germany. A somber picture, is it not?"
He paused and shrugged expressively. And then his voice lowered a note. "Perhaps you will believe me when I say that my whole existence is a living lie. Ah, yes, you think that. It is a lie, Countess, because no human being can defy the living God that is within him. He cannot forever quell the aspirations of the spirit. The spark is always alight. Sometimes it glows and fades, but sometimes a worthy motive sets it on fire. It is that spark which has survived in me, Countess Strahni, in spite of my efforts—my desires even—to deny its existence. Your illness——"
"Herr Hauptmann, I beg of you——"
"No. You cannot deny me. I nursed you, there—brought you back to life. Ah, you did not know. I brought a doctor at the hazard of the discovery of my hiding place. Charity came, love——"
"Herr Hauptmann, I forbid you," whispered Marishka chokingly, wondering now why she had listened to him for so long. "I must go—go to my room."
Goritz straightened and stood aside.
"You need not fear me, Countess," he said. "You see?" he added quickly. "I do not touch you."
Marishka moved a few paces away and then turned to look at him. He stood erect, smiling at her, his cap in his hand.
"I—I must go to my room, Herr Hauptmann," she murmured haltingly. "I—I am yet—far from strong."
"I am sorry. I pray that you will feel stronger in the morning. Adieu!"
"Adieu——" she murmured, and hurried through the stone portal, aware of the gaze of those dark, slightly oblique eyes which had puzzled, then fascinated—then frightened her.
It was with mingled feelings that Marishka found the sanctuary of her sleeping room. Her abhorrence of Goritz as the murderer of Hugh Renwick was uppermost in her breast, her fear of him as her captor of scarcely less import, but his tumultuous plea for her forgiveness and his strange avowal had given her food for thought. Such a rapidvolte-facewas beyond credence. This man had watched by her bedside, nursed her during the week that she had lain unconscious. Her cheeks burned hot at the thought of the situation, and quickly she questioned Ena who at last reluctantly admitted the truth. Herr Hauptmann Goritz had sat many nights by the bedside while she, Ena, had slept so as to be fresh for the day to follow. He had commanded her silence, and Ena had obeyed. She hoped that the Excellency would understand.
Marishka nodded and sent her from the room, for she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. He had watched by her sickbed, carrying out the orders of the doctor while she had lain unconscious—Goritz, the master craftsman of duplicity—Goritz, the insensible! What did it mean? Had the man spoken the truth? Was he—? Love to such a man as Goritz! It was impossible.
He had always been courteous and considerate, but there was a new note in his voice which rang strangely. Another lie—another hypocrisy? And yet the very frankness of his admission with regard to her safety for a moment disarmed her. He would have killed her—"eliminated" her—had the necessities of his duty demanded it of him. And yet he had confessed his love for her. What was the meaning of the paradox? Had he something to gain by her favor? Had a change taken place in their situation? A chance phrase had revealed the fact that there was now a danger of the revelation of this hiding place. They had been pursued—what had balked him in the continuance of their flight into Germany? Meditation only served to enhance the mystery, and she emerged from an hour of thought over the scene in the courtyard with no very clear idea of what the future had in store for her, sure only of one thing—that she must not hang importance upon the words of this man, who had already proved himself a deadly enemy to her happiness. He had hired assassins to kill Hugh, and when they had failed, had accomplished his purpose by a vile expedient.
Love! She knew what love was. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her arms in wordless, silent grief for the man to whom she had given all that was best and noblest of her—Hugh! But she could not weep. It seemed as though, long since, the fountains of her misery were dry. For a long while she crouched in the window, motionless, and when at last she raised her head and gazed out down the shimmering vista of the gorge, it was with a look of new resolution and intelligence. She must escape. Every iota of cleverness must be given to find a way out of Schloss Szolnok. What if, in spite of all, the things that Leo Goritz had confessed were true! She doubted it and yet—if he loved her—! Here was a woman's revenge, to bait, to charm, to spurn; and then to outwit him! A test of the sincerity of his professions, and of her own feminine art—a dangerous game which she had once before thought of playing, until his cruelty had atrophied all impulse.
But now! If he really cared—her power would grow with the venture, her own safety the pledge of his purity—a dangerous game, indeed, here alone upon this crag in the mountains, but if he were sincere, she was armed with a flaming sword to defend—to destroy! If—? She would not trust him, but she would fight him with the weapons she had. Her lips closed in a thin line, and a glint as of polished metal came into her eyes as the scene in the house of the Beg of Rataj shut out the lovely landscape before her. To destroy—to fan the spark to flame that she might extinguish it; to corrode the spirit with the biting acid of contempt; to envenom the soul—newly born, perhaps—to the sweeter uses of beneficence, and then escape! If he cared!
And if he did not care—if, as she really believed, he lied to gain an end....
This was the thought of him that obsessed her. A liar, always. Why not now? Men of his kind were unusual to women of hers, but even in the midst of his confession—as near self-abasement as a man of his type could come, the note of egotism rang clear above the graceful phrases—too graceful to be anything but manufactured in that clear inventive brain of his.
She paced the floor, thinking deeply, and at last stopped by the window and sought again the counsel of the eternal hills. After a while she turned again into the room and peered into a mirror, seeking in her face the answer to the riddle. It was pale, resolute, but it was not ugly.
She planned her campaign with the calm forethought of a general who picks out his own battlefield, disposing his forces to the best advantage, for attack or for repulse, for victory, or defeat. She must mask her approach, conceal her intentions, and develop slowly the real strength of her position. There was much that she wished to learn as to Schloss Szolnok, and its security from those who sought to intercept them, much in regard to the plans of her captor for the future, but she knew that she must act with caution and skill, if she hoped to escape.
Goritz had previously expressed a wish that when she grew strong enough to leave her bedroom, she would join him at dinner, which she heard was served in one end of the great Hall, but she decided that the first skirmish should take place in a situation of her own choosing. And so after dusk, the moon coming out, she went again upon the terrace where she leaned upon the wall of the bastion and looked down with an air of self-sought seclusion, upon the mists of the valley.
Goritz was not long in joining her. She heard his footsteps as he approached but did not give any sign or acknowledgment of his presence.
"May I talk with you, Countess Strahni?" he asked easily.
Her shrug, under her cloak, was hardly perceptible.
"Since you have already done so it seems that my own wishes do not matter," she said coolly.
"I have no wish to intrude."
Marishka laughed. "I can go in——" She drew her wrap more closely about her throat and straightened.
"I hope that you will not do that," he said.
"Is there anything you wished to speak to me about—? That is—er—anything of importance?"
Goritz looked past her toward the profile of the distant mountain, and smiled.
"I thought that you might be interested to learn something of my reasons for stopping here."
"The insect in the web of the spider has little emotion left for curiosity."
"The spider! I have always admired your courage, Countess."
"I can die but once."
"Perhaps you may care to know that you are not in the slightest danger of death."
"Thanks," she said coolly. "Your kindness is overwhelming. Or is my—'elimination' no longer essential?"
The more flippant her tone, the more somber Goritz became.
"My purposes, Countess Strahni, I think, you no longer have any reason to doubt. You are quite safe at Schloss Szolnok——"
"So is the insect in the web—from all other insects but the spider." She turned away. "You cannot blame me, Herr Hauptmann, if I judge of the future by the past."
"I would waste words to make further explanations which are so little understood, but there are matters of interest to you."
"Ah."
"You have been ill. Many things have happened. You would like to hear?"
"I am listening."
"It is the trifles of the world which make or prevent its greatest disasters. The man with the lantern at the bridgehead at Brod did not know that he held the destiny of Europe in his hand. And yet, this is the truth. Had he permitted us to pass unquestioned we should have reached Sarajevo in time to prevent the greatest cataclysm of all the ages."
Marishka turned toward him, her interest now fully aroused.
"What do you mean?"
"War, Countess Strahni—the most bloody—terrible—in the history of the world—the event that I have striven all my life to prevent. All of Europe is ablaze. Millions of men are marching—battles have already been fought——"
"Horrible? I cannot believe——"
"It is the truth. It followed swiftly upon the assassination at Sarajevo——"
"Serbia!"
"Serbia first—then Russia—Germany—Belgium—France—England, too——"
"You are speaking the truth?"
"I swear it."
"And Austria?"
"Germany and Austria—against a ring of enemies bent on exterminating us——"
"England—?"
And while with eager ears she listened, he told her the history of the long weeks, now growing into months, in which she had been hidden from the world—including the defeat of the Austrians by the Serbians along the Drina, and the advance of the Russians in East Prussia and Galicia.
She heard him through until the end, questioning eagerly, then aware of the dreadful significance of his news, forgetting for the moment her own animosities, her own questionable position in the greater peril of her country—and his. His country and hers at war against the world!
"Russia has won victories against Austria—in Galicia?" she urged.
"Yes—the Cossacks already are approaching Lemberg——"
"Lemberg!"
"They are less than two hundred kilometers from us at the present moment."
"And will they come—here?"
"I hope not," he said with a slow smile. "But Schloss Szolnok is hardly equipped to resist a siege of modern ordnance."
"And you—why are you here?"
The ingenuousness of her impetuous question seemed to amuse him.
"I?" he said. "I am here because—well, because you—because I had no other place to go."
"Will you explain?"
"I see no reason why I should not. I chose the place as a temporary refuge from pursuit. Your illness marred my plans. The war continues to mar them."
"How?"
He smiled.
"The insecthascuriosity, then? Schloss Szolnok has proved safe. I have no desire to take unnecessary risks."
"You were pursued?"
He nodded. "Yes. And I managed to get away—here, but the other end of this pass is now strongly guarded. I could have gone through when I first came, but you were very ill. You would probably have died if I had gone on. Now it is too late. You see," he said with a shrug, "I am quite cheerful about it."
She turned and examined him with an air of timidity.
"You mean that—that to save my life you—you have sacrificed all hope of winning through to Germany?"
"With you, yes—for the present," he smiled.
She turned away and leaned upon the wall.
"I—I think that I—I have done you some injustice, Herr Hauptmann," she murmured with an effort.
"Thank you."
"But I cannot understand. The papers which passed you through Hungary—signed by General Von Hoetzendorf——"
"Unfortunately are of no further service. An order for my arrest has been issued in Vienna."
"Your arrest? For taking me?"
"For many things——" And he shrugged.
"What do you propose to do?"
"Remain here for the present," he said slowly. "It is doubtful if anyone would think of seeking us here. The Schloss has an evil name along the countryside. None of the peasants dares to come within a league of the place."
"And I—?" she asked.
"It seems, Countess Strahni," he said slowly, smiling at her, "that our positions are now reversed—you the captor—I the prisoner. And yet, as you see," with a shrug, "I am making no effort to escape. You have led captivity captive."
His phrases were too well spoken, and the look in his eyes disturbed her.
"You—you wish me to understand that I am free to go——"
"Hardly that," he interrupted with a short laugh. "Only this morning you said that you would kill me if you dared. I do not relish the notion of being delivered into the hands of the police."
"You think that I would do that?" she questioned.
"Wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I——"
"I am sure of it. I am no longer under any illusions with regard to your sentiments toward myself. This morning I uncovered my heart to you—and you plunged a dagger into it. It was too much—beyond my deserts. I am no man for a woman to spit upon, Countess Strahni. You are still a prisoner—as completely under my power as though you and I were the last people left upon the earth."
His tone was mild, but there was a depth of meaning under it.
"I—I can scarcely be unaware of it," she murmured. "What are you going to do with me?"
"For the present we shall stay here—until an opportunity presents——"
"For escape?"
"I could go alone tonight—and reach Germany—without you. That is not my purpose."
"Then you propose to take me with you?"
"When the coast is clear—yes."
"And if the coast should not be clear?"
"I shall remain."
The situation was as she had supposed, but his motive—the real motive! She drew the wrap more closely around her throat and turned away from him again. To escape from him! That was the only thing she could think of now. Upon the road, his attitude of firm consideration, his cool insistence upon compliance with his wishes, had not been nearly so ominous as the personal note which he had injected into their relations. He frightened her now. But to escape? She was watched, she was sure, for in the afternoon, while the drawbridge was lowered, she had made out the figure of a man on guard at the end of the causeway. But while her conversation with Goritz dismayed her, she studied him keenly, trying to read him by what he did not say.
She smiled at him impudently.
"And suppose I attempted to escape?" she asked.
"You would fail. There is but one exit from Szolnok—the drawbridge—and that is continually guarded."
"You have ordered your men to shoot me?"
"No—but you will not pass."
"I see. Your contrition does not go as far as that."
"Not beyond the walls of Schloss Szolnok," he said coolly.
"And you ask me to believe in the integrity of your motives? What was the use, Herr Hauptmann? I could understand duplicity to me in the performance of a duty, but to practice your machine-made emotions upon my simplicity—! I could hardly forgive you that."
He kept himself well in hand and even smiled again.
"You wrong me, Countess Strahni. I have spoken the truth."
"You cannot deny me the privilege of doubting you," she replied.
"What further proof would you have me give you that I am honest in my love for you?"
She pointed past the drawbridge along the causeway toward the valley below.
"Permit me to go—there—alone—tonight."
He laughed quietly.
"Alone? I do not know what danger may lurk in the valley. The fact that I wish to keep you here—is a better proof of my tenderness."
She turned away from him and leaned upon the wall. But to him at least she did not show fear.
"We cannot remain here indefinitely," she said coolly.
"Are you not comfortable? Is not everything provided for you? It has been my pride to make your convalescence agreeable in all ways," he said, leaning a little nearer to her. "I have tried to atone for the discomforts of your journey. Was it not my solicitude for your health which balked my own plans? You have questioned the truth of my professions, but you cannot deny the evidences of your safety."
Marishka was thinking quickly. Much as she abhorred the man, she realized that, if she were to have any chance of success she must meet him with weapons stronger than his own. And so she turned to him with a smile which concealed her growing terror.
"Herr Hauptmann, I do not wish you to think that I am ungrateful for the many indulgences that you have shown me. Your position has been a difficult one. But from the beginning we have been enemies——"
"Before the outbreak of the war—but allies now——"
"Not if you persist in your plan to carry me to Germany."
He asked her permission to smoke, and when she had granted it he went on coolly.
"Perhaps something may happen to prevent the execution of my plan," he said.
"What?" she stammered.
He searched her face eagerly for a moment.
"You may be sure, Countess Strahni," he said in a half-whisper, "that it is very painful to me that you should think of me as an enemy. Enemy I am not. It is my duty to take you to Germany, but it is very painful to me to do anything which makes you unhappy. Here, safe from detection, I am still doing my duty. And in remaining here you, too, are safe. Will you not try to be contented—to endure my society just for a little while? I want to show you that I can be as other men——"
She laughed to hide her fears.
"All men are alike where a woman is concerned—"
"Will you try? I will be your slave—your servant. Within the castle you may come and go as you please. No one shall approach you without your permission. You see, I am not an exacting jailer. All I ask is the hope of your friendship, a glimpse of your returning smile, and such companionship as you care to give me. It is not much. Do I not deserve it?Bitte, think a little."
Marishka gasped and fought the impulse to run from him, for his face was very near her shoulder, his voice very close to her ear.
"I—I think that—we may be friends," she murmured.
"Will you give me your hand, Countess Strahni?"
She extended it slowly and he bowed over it, pressing it to his lips.
She found her excuse in a cough, a vestige of her illness which she summoned to her rescue.
"It—it is getting late, Herr Hauptmann," she said. "I must be going in. The night air——"
"By all means." He accompanied her to the portal of the hall and then she left him.
That night Marishka did not sleep, and the next day, pleading fatigue, remained in her bedroom, trying to muster up the courage to go forth and meet Goritz at this tragic game of his own choosing. That she had stirred some sort of an emotion in the man was not to be doubted. She read it in his eyes, in the touch of his fingers, and in the resonant tones of his voice, but she read too, the sense of his power, the confidence of his egotism to which all things were possible. And much as she wished to believe the testimony of his flashes of tenderness, the hazard of her position stared her in the face. But she knew that with such a man she must play a game of subtlety and courage. And so she resolved to meet him frequently, testing every feminine device to win him to her service which would obliterate all things but her own wishes, and present at last an opportunity for her escape.
In the week that followed she walked out with him across the causeway into the mountain road, visiting Szolnok farm and climbing the hills adjacent to the castle, but she saw no one except the German farmers, and it seemed indeed as though the gorge was taboo to all human beings. Goritz made love to her, of course, but she laughed him off, gaining a new confidence as the days of their companionship increased. Slowly, with infinite patience, with infinite self-control, she established a relationship which baffled him, a foil for each of his moods, a parry for each attack. With a smile on her lips which masked the lie, she told him that Hugh Renwick had been nothing to her.