"I quite agree with you," Max answered, "and so I feel sure does Moreas. Let us talk the question over like sensible men, and come to some definite decision."
Popular feeling being in favour of a discussion, they sat down by the camp fire and talked it over, as quietly and rationally as the racial tendencies of the various members of the party would permit. The result was as follows.
It was decided that, while it was out of the question that the entire party could succeed in reaching the spot for which they were making, it was still possible that two men, taking with them the best of the animals, might be able to do so. But who those two men should be was rather more difficult to determine. It was certain that Moreas must go, since he was the only man who was acquainted with the secret, and he was scarcely likely to impart it to anyone else. On his side, however, he flatly declined even to think of taking either of the two Spaniards with him. They might fume and curse as much as they pleased, he said, but their bluster would not alter his decision. The man who went with him must be either Bertram or Max. For his own part he professed not to care very much which of them it was.
A solemn silence descended upon the group.
"Perhaps we had better draw lots for it," began Bertram. "I may say that, if I am chosen, I am perfectly willing to go; if it falls upon you, Mortimer, I have no doubt you will not raise any objection. What do you say?"
"Let us draw lots for it by all means," Max answered. "But how shall we decide?"
One of the Spaniards, true son of a gambling race, immediately produced a dice box, which he still carried with him, long after he had parted with other apparently more valuable possessions. By the flickering light of the camp fire, the two men threw, to decide which should have the honour of courting what, each must have felt in his own heart, was almost certain death. As a result Max was declared to be the winner.
"It is settled then," said Moreas, with what Max could not help feeling was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "You are perfectly satisfied? Well, to-morrow, Señor Mortimer, if you are prepared, we will push on together, and see what fate has in store for us."
"I shall be quite ready," Max replied. "And, as I understand it, the remainder of the party will retrace their steps to the fertile country at the entrance to the Ranges, and await our coming there."
"That is how I understand it also," replied Bertram, looking steadily at Max. "We shall give you three months' grace, and if you have not returned by the end of that time, we shall conclude that you are dead, and will either attempt to reach you, or return to civilisation, as circumstances may dictate."
"That is the arrangement," said Moreas.
After that the party lapsed into silence once more.
As nobody seemed inclined for conversation when these details had been settled, they rolled themselves up in their blankets and said good-night to the world. Silence had not taken possession of the camp more than half an hour before Max felt the pressure of a hand upon his arm. He rolled over to find Bertram making signals to him. He accordingly arose and followed him to a spot at some little distance from the camp. When they had assured themselves that they were not being followed, the Englishman spoke.
"Your Royal Highness," he said; then, seeing that the other was about to interrupt him, held up his hand. "Pardon me, but for a few minutes it is necessary that I should forget our supposed equality, and remember that you are a royal personage, and I only the son of a Yorkshire gentleman. I'm not as a rule a man who thinks very much of titles, but there is no getting away from the fact that a man who is, or should be, going to rule a country, is called upon to take more care of his life than other people. When we drew lots to-night as to who should accompany Moreas, I hoped and believed that chance would favour myself. Fate, however, willed otherwise. Now, sir, what I am going to say to you is this; if you will consent to allow me to go forward in your place, it will be conferring an honour upon me for which I shall be grateful to you to my dying day. I can easily make an excuse to Moreas, and convince him that we have come to the arrangement together. Nobody will suspect, and so you will be saved from doing, what I really and truly believe to be, a wrong act."
Max was more touched by the other's words than he could say.
"I thank you," he said, holding out his hand. "I know that you speak out of kindness to me, but what you ask is impossible—quite impossible! Really it is! The lot has fallen upon me, and, indeed, I can only ask you to believe that I would not have it otherwise. I am quite willing to go forward, and, when all is said and done, I believe I am the best person for the work. You and Moreas are not particularly friendly, as you must be aware, and there is no saying what might happen if you were thrown so much into each other's society, without any one to see fair play."
"You are thinking of the day when he fired that rifle at me in the mountains, I suppose," Bertram replied. "I suppose you did not think I was aware of it. I was, however, and I knew also that you were behind him. If it hadn't been for that fact, I should have taxed him with his treachery on my return to the camp. But we are wasting time. Is it quite impossible for me to make you change your mind?"
"Quite," said Max. "Though I am none the less grateful to you for your kindness in offering to go, I cannot accept it."
"Are you quite sure that no argument on my part will make you alter your decision?"
"I am quite sure," Max replied. "My mind is irrevocably made up."
"So be it," returned Bertram quietly. "In that case, I suppose, we may as well return to the camp. Should Moreas have seen us leave it, he may have got the idea into his head that you are scheming against him. That would be a bad beginning as far as you are concerned."
They accordingly retraced their steps, and, so far as they knew, reached the camp without anyone being the wiser that they had absented themselves from it.
Next morning, as soon as it was light, the camp was roused by Moreas. The best mules had been set apart for the onward journey, and, as soon as the morning meal had been eaten, and the beasts were saddled, the two adventurers prepared to set off. When all the final arrangements had been made, and the place of meeting, should the pair return, settled, it was time for them to bid the rest of the party farewell. It was a solemn moment in their lives, and every one seemed aware of the fact. Moreas shook hands with the two Spaniards first, and then approached Bertram.
"Farewell, Señor," he said, with a bow. "I trust I shall have good news for you when next I see you."
Max observed that they did not shake hands. The hatred that existed between them was so mutual and so strong, that even the fact that, in all human probability, they would never see each other again, was not sufficient to make them part friends. Then came Max's turn. He shook hands with Antonio and Diego, and, having done so, approached the man for whom he entertained such a genuine liking.
"Good-bye," he said. Then looking him straight in the face, he added, "If by any chance I should not return, you know whom to make acquainted with my fate. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," answered the other, his voice shaking as he said it. Then, seeing that Moreas was out of earshot, he added, "For heaven's sake, your Highness, run no undue risks. If you will not think of yourself, think of those in England who love you."
"You may be sure I shall do that," Max replied. Then, uttering another hearty good-bye, and shaking Bertram once more by the hand, he set off in pursuit of his partner.
As they turned the corner of the cañon, he looked back and waved his hand. Bertram was standing where he had left him, still looking after him.
The first day's march, after they left the main camp, could not be said to have been, in any sense of the word, either a pleasant or a comfortable one. Both the men were ill at ease, not only with their present lot, but also with each other. Moreas entertained the unpleasant suspicion that Max, while he never failed in his duty, was, in reality, more in sympathy with Bertram than with himself. The anxiety of what was before them lay heavily upon their minds, while there was a nameless, indescribable something that Max could not understand, and yet which stood like a shadow between them. It soon became apparent to him that the dangers to which they were to be subjected had not been in the least exaggerated. For no less than four days they continued on through the mountains, and it was only after incredible hardships that they managed to reach the plains on the other side. Here, however, as it turned out, they were in scarcely a better plight. As they expected, on leaving the mountains they found themselves confronted by a stretch of desert. To attempt to cross it seemed to be to run too great a risk, and yet to turn back, when they were so near the end, seemed an equally foolish undertaking. With a dogged determination, worthy of a better cause, and with which Max had never credited him, Moreas decided in favour of pushing on. It was a rash decision, for with every hour the condition of the mules was becoming more and more pitiable, while the men themselves were in scarcely a better case. Still Moreas remained in a state of sullenness. When the animals were no longer able to bear their weights, he got off and walked sulkily beside his own beast, grudged them the delay when they rested, and after they had prepared their camp at night, went so far as to insinuate that Max had been keeping the mules back to serve his own purpose. It was indeed a dreary resting-place they had that night. There was no shelter; no water, save that they had brought with them; no food to revive their starving animals, save a few mouthfuls of corn and half a dozen handfuls of parched grass. As soon as his own meal was eaten, Moreas rolled himself up in his blankets and went to sleep, leaving Max by the fire, watching its dull glow and wondering whether he was destined to come safely out of this perilous adventure or not. Overhead the great stars shone brilliantly, while the low wind moaned like a banshee across the waste. He thought of those who loved him in England, of Ottilie, and later of myself. At such a moment his curiosity was excited as to what I had done when I discovered he had left Rio.
Next morning, as soon as it was daylight, they saddled up once more, and continued their march. For the moment the country, which consisted of barren plains in front, behind, and on either side, showed no signs of changing. As on the previous day, Moreas stalked grimly in front, never looking behind him, and to all appearances oblivious of his companion's presence.
One thing was growing more certain every hour, and that was the fact that the hardships through which they had passed had combined, with natural greed, to turn Moreas' brain.
"I shall have to keep my eyes on him, day and night," said Max to himself. "In his present condition there is no saying what he may do."
This knowledge added a fresh horror to the situation. It is bad enough to be starving anywhere, but it is a thousand times worse to have to do so when alone in the wilds with a madman. As soon as they got into camp that night, the second on that awful plain, Moreas commenced to walk in circles round the fire, talking to himself meanwhile, and shaking his fist at the darkening desert. When Max offered him a portion of the driedbiltong—all that remained to them in the way of food—he refused it with an oath, adding, that he could not eat when they should be pushing towards their destination!
"You won't be strong enough to reach it at all, if you don't eat something," said Max philosophically.
He, himself, made as good a meal as possible, and then lay down to rest, but he was too anxious for his own safety to fall asleep, until he was quite convinced that Moreas was asleep also. He had no desire that the other should steal a march on him during the night. What he had seen that day in the mountains, when Moreas had stalked Bertram, was quite sufficient to show him that his companion was not one who would stick at trifles. At last, however, he dozed off.
As the afternoon of the next day approached, they saw before them another low range of hills. These, when they approached them, proved to be of iron-stone formation, a fact, which, as soon as he heard it, caused Moreas to utter a cry of joy.
"We are nearly there!" he cried. "Those are the hills of which the Indian told the old man. We have only to cross them, and we shall be at the place where the diamonds are. Let us push on, push on. For heaven's sake, man, stir yourself; there is not a moment to lose."
At last they reached the summit of the last hill, and looked down upon the plains on the other side.
"It is the place! it is the place!" cried Moreas, almost beside himself with excitement. "Yonder is the river he spoke of, and there, away to the right, is its old course. You can even see the big black rocks that he told me of, rising out of the sand. The Saints be praised, we are here at last! We are here at last!"
So overcome was he by his excitement, that it was as much as Max could do to prevent him from setting off at a run down the hillside. This was the place, then, of which the poor, old, half-witted diamond hunter had told Moreas. The place where diamonds were as large as hazel nuts, and could be had for the picking up. He wondered how true the story would prove to be. For his own part, he was not going to pin too much faith upon it. If it turned out trumps, well and good; if not, he could console himself with the reflection that the old fellow had played off on Moreas a grimmer practical joke than had ever been perpetrated on himself. The afternoon was well spent before they reached a spot which they considered favourable for a camp. Max had already noticed with satisfaction that there was a fair amount of game to be had for the shooting, water was abundant, while for the animals there was a greater supply of herbage than they had seen for many a long day. By this time Moreas' head appeared to be quite turned. They had scarcely reached their camp before he was off to try his luck among the sands of the old river bed.
It was almost dark when he returned. When he did so, however, he shook like a man with the palsy.
"Look what I have found!" he said, scarcely able to contain himself for joy. "The old man did not deceive me after all. They are here. Here, I tell you. I shall be the richest man on earth."
As he spoke he unclasped his fist, and showed Maxtwo fair-sized diamondslying in the hollow of his hand.
The week following their arrival at their destination was remarkable in more senses than one. After the success which had attended Moreas' search among the sands of the river-bed it was impossible for him to be idle for a moment. It was no sooner light than he was at work; he kept at it with feverish eagerness until darkness fell; and grudged every hour until dawn should reappear again. Under the influence of their success his old antagonism for Max seemed to have left him. If he were not quite so friendly as he had once been, it seemed as if he were at least anxious to make amends for his conduct in the immediate past. One thing, however, puzzled Max more than he liked to say, and made him suspicious of the other's overtures. This was the fact that Moreas invariably preferred to do his work alone, and did not appear to mind very much what excuse he made so long as he achieved his object. It is true that in the evening he invariably added his day's findings to the general store with scrupulous exactness, but on no account would he allow his companion to be present at the washings. Scarcely a day passed without their discovering something of value.
By the end of the month they had discovered six stones of considerable size, fourteen medium, and some twenty or thirty small ones, varying from a quarter to a carat each. These they placed in a small bag and religiously counted every evening.
Influenced by such a run of luck, Moreas' manner underwent yet another change. He became geniality itself, upbraided himself for his former treatment of Max, and declared that if he had searched the whole world through he could not have found a better companion. He vowed that he entertained the affection of a brother for him.
How, considering all this, Max's suspicions were first aroused, I cannot say. It may have been that the other's excessive eagerness to recognise the honesty with which every evening he himself handed over the stones he had collected may have had something to do with it. It is certain, however, that, little by little, a feeling of positive distrust was born in his mind. In vain he tried to dismiss it from his thoughts. The more he told himself that he was doing the other an injustice, the stronger the feeling became that Moreas was playing a double game. He determined to watch him closely, and did so without, however, detecting anything suspicious. For the reason that they worked in different places, it was impossible for him to check all that was found. To propose to work with him, in order that he might keep an eye on him, was equally out of the question.
No, there was nothing for it but for him to watch and wait, hoping that if anything were wrong, some happy chance would enable him to detect and rectify it.
When they had been two months upon the field, and had explored the river up and down for a distance of nearly twenty miles, Max inquired of Moreas whether he did not think it was time for them to return to their friends.
"Perhaps it is," said Moreas slowly. "And I think it will be better if we tried the other route, through Peru into Brazil. It is just possible it might be both safer and quicker than the way we came."
"It's just possible it might," Max answered, realising at once what the other was driving at.
"But what about the party who are waiting for us on the other side of the mountains? How would it affect them?"
"They would in all probability return to civilisation," said Moreas, "believing us to be dead. I can't see that it would be altogether to our disadvantage if they did. What do you say?"
Max was silent for a moment. When he spoke again there was a note in his voice that should have warned the other not to proceed too far with his suggestions.
"Look here, Moreas," he said, "I can see quite plainly what is in your mind, and, once and for all, let me tell you I will not have it. We are here in the interests of Bertram and the others, as well as to look after ourselves. We have pledged our honour to return within a certain time, and that is what we are going to do! You know me, I think, and you are aware that if I say a thing I mean it. Let that end the matter."
"Well, well, let it be as you wish," said Moreas, with extraordinary calmness. "Perhaps it wouldn't be the thing, and if you are determined to play straight with them I will do the same. You're a good fellow, Max, and I'm sorry I suggested anything else. Try to forget it."
Though he spoke so fair and appeared so repentant, Max did not feel any the more inclined to trust him. As a matter of fact, the other's ready compliance had made him even more suspicious of his motives than before. He knew that unless Moreas had some other plan in his mind he would not have given up his point or dismissed the matter so calmly.
"The rascal has got something up his sleeve," said Max to himself, when he thought the matter over. "I wish I could discover what it is. The fellow is a thorough-paced thief as well as a would-be murderer. And I'm not going to trust him as far as I can see him."
For some days after the conversation just recorded, they continued their work as if the subject of their return to civilisation had never been mentioned. Max noticed, however, that his companion did not show as good results as before, the stones were small, milky, and very poor in quality. He spoke to him on the subject.
"The place seems to have suddenly panned out," the other replied angrily. "Above the bend there is not even an indication of theformacao diamante. I am beginning to think that for the future it is only on the flat we shall discover them."
Yet even this disastrous intelligence did not prevent him from returning next day to work at the same place. From a vantage spot on the side of the hill to which Max had climbed for the purpose, he could see him busily engaged there, digging and washing as if for dear life. This set Max thinking. Moreas, he knew, would not waste his time, every second of which he valued like so much gold, on unprofitable labour. Then an idea occurred to him, and he determined to act upon it. He had noticed that, every afternoon, a considerable interval elapsed between the time that Moreas had ceased work and his appearance at the camp. What did he do during the time? Max determined to find out. Accordingly, that afternoon, a quarter of an hour or so before the usual time for returning to their camp, he set off along the side of the hill, keeping under cover of the rocks. At last he was near enough to be able to see Moreas in the river-bed, working away with his usual persistence. Five minutes later the other put down his tools and began making his way in an opposite direction to the camp. From the stealthy way in in which he walked, and the manner in which he constantly looked behind him, it was plain that he was afraid of being followed. But, as Max asked himself, if his motives were honest, what should he have to fear?
At last he reached what was evidently his destination, a peculiar cluster of rocks some three-quarters of a mile from the camp. A moment later he had disappeared from view, not to reappear for something like a quarter of an hour. When he did so he looked anxiously about him as before, and then, as soon as he had satisfied himself that his proceedings had not been overlooked, started back for the river-bed, keeping as much cover as possible between himself and the place where he supposed Max to be still working.
Max, in his turn, waited until the other was out of sight and then, skirting the base of the hill, approached the rocks where, a quarter of an hour or so before, Moreas had been so mysteriously engaged. He was quite aware that if by any chance Moreas should return and find him there, it would put an end to their partnership.
"Let that be as it may," he said to himself, "I'm determined to find out what it was that brought him here."
When he reached the open space between the rocks, he looked eagerly about him. No sign, however, of anything unusual was to be discovered there. He could not see that the ground had been touched, nor could he find any place where things, such as he was thinking of, could be hidden. The ground was of a sandy description, bare for the most part, but varied here and there with tufts of rough grass, some eight to ten inches in height. After patient investigation he found that one of these showed signs of having lately been pressed down by a heavy weight.
"Now I think I understand," he said to himself, and immediately resolved to overhaul the smaller rocks in its neighbourhood.
A few minutes later he uttered a cry of delight, and immediately replaced the stone he had lifted. Moving to the other side of the circle he carefully overhauled the neighbourhood, in order to make quite sure that Moreas was not returning. Nothing was to be seen of him, however. He accordingly returned to his examination of the hole. As it proved, he was not wrong in his conjecture. In it reposed what he had quite expected to find there, namely, a small leather bag, similar to that in which the diamonds at the camp were kept.
"So, friend Moreas, you turn out to be a thief after all," he said, as he sat down upon the ground and opened the bag. "You hand over to me, for the welfare of the syndicate, the small stones you find, while the more valuable you hide here for your own benefit."
So saying he shot the contents of the bag into the palm of his hand and studied them attentively. It was impossible to say what the collection was worth in its entirety, but the total could scarcely have been less than thirty thousand pounds.
He placed the bag in his pocket, and retraced his steps to the hillside. Once there he sat down and considered the position. To have taken his haul back to the camp, as things stood, would have been the height of folly. In that case they would have been ready at hand for Moreas to take possession of them, should he be lucky enough to put a bullet into Max before the latter could defend himself. No! he must find a new hiding-place for them. He looked the hillside up and down without discovering what he wanted. Then half way to the summit, and a quarter of a mile on his right, he saw a conspicuous rock, the shape of which reminded him irresistibly of a church steeple. For some distance to the eastward the hill was entirely bare. He accordingly hurried thither, and having measured the distance carefully, foot by foot, dug a large hole, seventy-one feet due east from the rock just mentioned. In this hole he placed the bag containing the precious stones, and afterwards returned the soil to its former position, covering it with a small rock, in order that the fact that he had been digging should not be apparent to the casual observer, should one ever chance to pass that way. Then, to make sure that there was no error in his calculations, he carefully stepped the distance once more. As before, it was seventy-one feet exactly. To further impress this fact upon his memory, he took his hunting-knife, bared his breast, and drew, regardless of the pain, a rough picture of the spire rock, and below it the number "seventy-one," with a large E to indicate the east. The blood gushed out before he had finished, the pain was excruciating, but he showed no sign of flinching. When he had done this he picked up his rifle once more and set off for camp.
On his arrival there he found Moreas seated on a log beside the fire. He looked up as Max came near, and seeing that he was carrying his rifle, asked what sort of luck he had had. The other noticed that there was the same shifty look upon his face that always heralded the approach of mischief. However, since he was prepared for all eventualities, he did not mind so very much. It was when Moreas was genially disposed that he feared him.
"I did not see anything to shoot," Max replied, as he approached the fire. "What luck have you had?"
"Only two small stones," answered the other; "One runs, perhaps, to a carat, and the other to about a half. To tell the truth, I'm getting tired of it. Our luck is but half so good as it was."
"Surely you are not dissatisfied," said Max, seeing that the moment had come for him to bring his accusation. "You should be the last to say that, seeing the nest-egg you've got in the bag under that stone yonder. What more could you want?"
Moreas sprang to his feet with a cry.
"You have taken my stones!" he cried, at the same time producing his pistol. "What have you done with them? Curse you!"
"I have hidden them where you will never find them," answered Max. Then, seeing that the other was advancing threateningly towards him, he cried, "Stand back, Moreas! I warn you, stand back! If you come a step closer, your blood be upon your own head."
"Damn your waste of words!" stormed the other, scarcely able to speak for the rage that was consuming him. "Give me my stones. Tell me where you have hidden them."
"I'll tell you nothing," retorted Max, "save that you had better not come any nearer. I know you for the traitorous cur you are, and if you advance another step I'll shoot you."
But Moreas was too far gone to hear or heed him. A fit of demoniacal rage had taken possession of him. The madness he had shown in the desert, and which had since died down, had returned to him once more and with a yell of fury he pointed his revolver at Max and fired. The bullet whistled past the other's ear. He fired again, this time with better execution, for Max felt a stab, as of a red-hot knitting needle passing through his shoulder, and knew that he was hit. Still able, however, to lift his arm, he raised his rifle, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. Moreas leapt into the air with a cry, and an instant later fell forward on his face. His body quivered for a moment, and then all was still.
"Exit Moreas," said Max quietly, and then, letting his rifle fall, put up his right hand to his face. The world was swimming before his eyes. He staggered and fell to the ground in a dead faint. How long he lay there he could not tell, but when his senses returned to him it was night and the stars were shining brightly. His shoulder hurt him terribly, but he gave it scarcely a thought. "What shall I do?" he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. "I cannot stay here. This place is accursed."
His one all-mastering desire was to be done with that plain for ever. He felt that it would drive him mad to stay on it another hour. The fire was still burning, though very faintly; sufficient light, however, came from it to show him Moreas' body still lying beside it. The man's dying shriek rang in his ears, as it would ring so long as he could hear anything. He shuddered, as the recollection of the scene occurred to him. There was no doubt about it, he must get away at once. With as much haste as he could command, he stumbled about the camp, collecting the two mules and loading them with such things as he desired to carry away with him. The small bag of diamonds, to which Moreas had contributed a minor share, he resolved to take with him. With the others, however, which had been the cause of all the trouble, and for which Moreas had paid with his life, he would have nothing to do. If the other members of the party desired to possess them, let them come after them and find them for themselves. For his part, he was not going to handle them again. Then, throwing another shuddering glance at his dead foe, he reeled away in the dark up the hillside,en routefor civilisation once more. The spirit of Moreas seemed to be walking beside him, and it was as if his last dreadful shriek echoed continually among the hills. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, weak and exhausted from loss of blood, he staggered on as best he could, willing to do or bear anything rather than remain in a place, the mere thought of which was as bitter to him as hell. At last, unable to go any further, he threw himself down upon the ground and fell into a deep sleep that was something more than a mere slumber. He can remember nothing more save that one longing continually possessed him, namely, to push on in search of Bertram, and never to see that plain again.
How he managed to accomplish it in the condition in which he was then, no one will ever know. It is quite certain that he himself could not tell. Cross the range, however, and that terrible desert on the other side of it, he certainly did. A month later, with both mules missing, though where he had lost them he could not tell, and his own frame reduced to a skeleton, he reached the spot in the mountains where he and Bertram had drawn lots and had said good-bye to each other so many months before. Then he dropped, as he thought, to die.
Max's surprise may be imagined when, after he had fallen unconscious, he opened his eyes to find Bertram kneeling beside him.
"Thank God!" said the latter, as soon as he saw that his friend recognised him. "We had begun to think it was all over with you."
Max endeavoured to speak, but his voice was too weak to utter a word. A moment later he had closed his eyes once more. Though so near death's door, he had managed to slip out before that grim portal had actually closed upon him. The effect of all that he had been through, however, was not to be shaken off in a day. For a week he hovered between life and death, devotedly attended by Bertram, who scarcely left his side for a moment. Needless to say, the curiosity of the trio was painfully excited to know what had become of Moreas, and how it was that Max had returned alone. The bullet-wound in his shoulder and the marks upon his chest, which, by the way, were beginning to heal, only added to their wonderment. But, anxious as they were to hear the story, Bertram would not allow him to give them as much as a hint of it until he was strong enough to do so without fear of injury to himself. Then, for one never-to-be-forgotten hour, Max spoke. He described all that had befallen them since they had said farewell to each other; he told them of the success that had attended their labours on the field, and then went on to speak of Moreas' treachery, and of the last great discovery he had made.
"Feeling that it was the only thing to be done, I returned to the camp and taxed him with it," he continued. "As soon as he knew that he was discovered, and not only discovered, but that his precious stones had been found and hidden elsewhere, he was beside himself with rage. For my own part, I believe it was his intention, in any case, to have shot me as soon as I should return; be that as it may, however, he certainly fired at me, and his bullet pierced my shoulder. In return, I shot him dead. Then, without thought of anything else, save to see the last of it, I gathered my goods together and fairly bolted from the plain."
"But what about the second bag of diamonds?" cried Rodriguez, and Pereira echoed the question.
"I left them in the place I had chosen for them," Max replied. "There let them remain."
"Hear, hear!" said Bertram. "I for one will have nothing to do with them."
The two Spaniards, however, thought otherwise. If Moreas were dead, and the two others were willing to forego their share, here was a chance of a glorious fortune for both of them. Max, however, encouraged by Bertram, remained obstinate. He was determined that the two men, even provided they were willing to run the risks attendant on reaching the plain, should not obtain the stones. They might curse, implore, threaten, and cajole, but without success.
"There are diamonds there," said Max. "If you are desirous of making your fortunes, go and search for yourselves; but the stones which cost Moreas his life, and very nearly cost me mine, shall remain where they are hidden."
With that decision the two men were compelled to be content, but black looks and sinister mutterings became the order of the day, and more than once it was necessary for Bertram to give them very plainly to understand what course he should adopt in the event of certain contingencies arising.
"And what are we going to do now?" Bertram inquired of Max, when the latter had recovered sufficiently to make it possible for them to think of retracing their steps to civilisation.
"That's more than I can say," Max replied. "Let us get back into the world first."
Next day they accordingly started on their homeward journey, but for the first week they were compelled to travel slowly, on account of Max's still enfeebled condition. Little by little, however, his strength returned to him, until, by the time they had reached the forest, which alone separated them from the village at the end of the railway, the same at which they had purchased the mules, he was almost himself again. On arrival they installed themselves at thehospederia, the same at which Bertram had announced his recognition of Max as the Crown Prince of Pannonia, and at which Moreas and the Spaniards had indulged in their orgie so many months before. What a variety of things had happened since they had said good-bye to it! Then, they had been setting out on the expedition, full of hope and confidence; now, they had returned, minus one of their party, and without the great wealth which they expected to bring with them. They had, however, the small bag which Max had brought with him, and this being so, on the morning following their arrival, Bertram set off for Rio, returning next day with an elderly individual who weighed, tested, and valued the stones. A price having been agreed upon between them, the money was paid over and each man received his share, after which the old gentleman returned to the capital, and all that was left was for Max and Bertram to decide what their future movements should be. The two Spaniards had determined to take a holiday, then they intended purchasing fresh mules with which to make another attempt to reach the place where the diamonds were hidden. Again and again they had endeavoured to induce Max to reveal the hiding-place, but without success. Finding entreaty useless, they attempted to bribe him, promising him first a quarter and at last half the stones, if he would supply them with the necessary information. But he was not to be tempted. Bertram and he had decided that since Moreas had paid for the stones with his life, they should not be touched. Accordingly, they departed next day for Rio.
"Have you formed any plans for the future?" inquired Bertram of Max, when they were alone together.
"None," Max replied, "except that I am determined to leave Brazil as soon as possible. Have you anything to propose?"
"Not at present," the other replied. "If only there were some fighting to be had, I should have liked to have tried my hand at soldiering. But when we left the world was so confoundedly peaceful, and I suppose it is still. There's one idea that I have at the back of my head, however. I don't know whether it would commend itself to you?"
"Tell me about it," said Max.
"Well, it concerns the South Sea Islands," said Bertram a little diffidently. "Ever since I was a youngster I've had a hankering to visit them. In fact, it was my original intention to do so, and if I hadn't got stranded in this country, who knows but what I might have been a king by this time."
"The South Sea Islands?" said Max at once. "I'm inclined to think that's not by any means a bad idea. And what was it your intention to do there besides founding a kingdom?"
"I thought of purchasing a schooner and going in for the island trade," the other answered. "It must be a jolly life, if all one hears is true. Sailing continually across blue seas, amongst the loveliest islands man can imagine, dealing with the pleasantest people on earth——"
"And figuring as thepièce de résistanceat some native banquet, I suppose," answered Max with a laugh. "Seriously, I like the idea immensely. Why shouldn't we try it together? We're both in possession of a decent sum of money, and if we make our way to Buenos Ayres, and then across the Andes into Chili, we could easily get a boat from Valparaiso to Honolulu. We shouldn't find much difficulty in picking up a handy schooner I expect, and then the firm of Bertram & Mortimer could be placed on a definite footing. What do you say?"
"It's just the very thing I should enjoy," answered Bertram. "But what about yourself? Are you as determined as ever not to return to Europe?"
"Every bit as determined," Max replied. "In point of fact, I intend going a step further. As soon as we get to Rio I shall have a document drawn up in which I shall renounce, once and for all, any claim I may have upon the throne. Let my brother take it; he is a far better man in every way, and though you may think me a fool for saying so, I have felt for many years positively certain in my own mind that he is decreed by fate to occupy it."
With that, Max told Bertram the old legend of Michael's cross, and of the gipsy's prophecy concerning it.
"Do you really mean to say that you believe it?" asked Bertram when he had finished.
"I certainly do," Max answered, "and you can see for yourself how much of it has come true. Paul has Michael's cross upon his brow, and he will sit upon the throne as soon as the Republic shall come to an end. I am as confident of that as I am of anything. And now let us discuss the pros and cons of this South Seas business. I am all eagerness to embark upon it."
They did as he suggested, and for over an hour were busily engaged working out the details of the scheme. Eventually it was arranged that they should start for Rio next morning, and find some one there to draw up the deed of which Max had just spoken, and who could be trusted to keep his secret, and when it had been despatched to the proper quarter, make for the capital of the Argentine, and thence across the Andes into Chili, embarking as soon as a vessel could be found for the islands. That night Max dreamed of tropical islands lifting their palm-clad heads out of azure seas, of fast-sailing schooners, and a life that was all sunshine and excitement. When he woke he was even more keen on the notion than he had been on the previous day. They caught an early train for Rio, and towards the middle of the afternoon found themselves once more in the capital of the Republic. Now what Max had to do was to get his money out of the bank and to transact his legal business without Brockford or De Montezma becoming aware of it.
"I will give you my cheque," he said to Bertram, when they had taken up their abode at a small hotel at the opposite end of the town to that at which his friends had their offices. "You can cash it while I remain in the background."
Bertram agreed, and set off upon his errand. On entering the bank he placed the cheque upon the counter. The cashier picked it up and examined the signature with a look of surprise upon his face. The manager happened to be passing at the moment, and when the draft was shown to him he glanced sharply at Bertram.
"Pardon me," he began, "but might I request the favour of a few moments' conversation with you while the cashier is counting the money?"
"I shall be very pleased," said Bertram, and when the manager had given an instruction in an undertone to one of his clerks, he followed him into his private room. The door having been closed, and when the other had pushed forward a chair, Bertram inquired what he could do for him.
"I notice that you have presented a draft signed by Mr. Mortimer, who, a few months since, was employed in the firm of Montezma & Co., of this city. I also notice that the cheque is dated to-day, a circumstance which would seem to point to the fact that Mr. Mortimer is in Rio at the present moment."
"That is quite possible," Bertram returned stiffly. "He may be or he may not. I don't see how it concerns anyone but himself. I am not aware that he has done anything to necessitate his keeping out of the way!"
"I am afraid we are playing at cross purposes," said Doubleday. "Pray do not imagine that I am in any way antagonistic to his Royal——"
Bertram pricked up his ears. So the manager was also aware that Max was the Crown Prince of Pannonia? He was sorry for that; it might lead to complications.
"My only desire," the other continued, "for speaking to you about—well, about Mr. Mortimer, was that, should you know his address, you might be able to tell him how anxiously his friends have been seeking his whereabouts. If he would only grant them an interview, they would be so thankful."
"That, I feel sure, he will not do," said Bertram. "Nothing would induce him to think of such a thing."
The manager sighed.
"It seems a pity," he went on. "I cannot think why he should be so wilful."
"Nor I," answered Bertram. "The fact, however, remains that it is his own business, and he is entitled to conduct it as he pleases." As he said this he rose.
"I will see if your money is prepared," said the manager, following him.
"Many thanks," returned Bertram, and when he had received it from the cashier, he left the bank, the manager bidding him good-bye upon the doorstep. Then, having made sure he was not being followed by anyone from the bank, he set off as fast as he could go in the direction of the inn where he and Max had taken up their abode. He was not aware that Mr. Brockford had been standing on the opposite side of the street waiting for him to come out, and that as soon as he did so and had started on his walk, the other followed him, keeping a safe distance behind, but never for one moment losing sight of him. Reaching the inn, Bertram made his way to their sitting-room and handed Max the money. He was in the act of informing him of what had taken place at the bank, when there was a tap at the door. A moment later it opened, and Brockford stood before them.
Max sprang to his feet with an exclamation of astonishment.
"Brockford!" he cried, "what on earth does this mean? How did you know I was here?"
He looked at Bertram as if he thought he must be responsible for the other's presence.
"You do your friend an injustice if you suspect him," said Brockford. "He did not know that I was following him. It was Doubleday, the bank manager, who put me on the trail. He sent word to me that your friend was at the bank, and when he left I followed him here. Thank God, I have found you at last. We have searched the country for you. Oh, you foolish man, why did you run away like that?"
"Because my brother Paul was in Rio looking for me," Max replied simply. "To have remained here would have been to have fallen into his hands."
"And could you have fallen into kinder hands?"
"That is beside the point," said Max. "It is because of his love for me that I must keep out of the way. It may sound paradoxical to say so, but it is the truth."
"Well, you can keep out of the way no longer now," answered Brockford. "You have returned in the nick of time."
"Returned for what?" Max inquired in astonishment.
"Do you mean to say that you don't know?" asked the other.
"I know nothing," Max replied, with an unmistakable faltering in his voice. "We have been in the wilds so long that we are ignorant of all that has happened elsewhere. What is it?"
Bertram noticed that the hand resting on the back of the chair trembled.
"What have you to tell me?" he asked again.
"Is it possible that you are not aware that you are the King of Pannonia?" continued Brockford in an awed voice.
Max started back with an exclamation of horror.
"King!" he cried in a choking voice. "My God, man! What do you mean? You don't mean—that—that——"
"I mean that your father is dead, Sire," said Brockford quietly. "He died three months ago, and your mother followed him six weeks later."
This was more than Max could bear. He dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands. For some minutes silence reigned in the room. Then he rose and, with a face white and haggard as a sere cloth, turned to Brockford.
"Tell me everything," he said. "I'm stronger now and can bear it."
Thereupon, Brockford, to whom I had written, in case he should hear of him, gave a completerésuméof all that had occurred during his absence. He informed him of our father's death, just at the time when there was a possibility of Pannonia becoming a Monarchy once more. He told him of our mother's end such a short time afterwards; of the gradual crumbling away of the Republic, and of the war with Mandravia to which it had given rise. He revealed to him the fact that being unable to find Max, search how I would, and seeing that there was no time to lose, I had sprung into the breach, and, supported by the Count von Marquart, now a very old man, but as keen and self-assertive as of yore, and the majority of the nobles, had seized the throne and declared myself Regent in his stead. Max's face, so Brockford has since told me, when he heard the news, was almost transformed.
"I have heard a great deal during my life," said the latter, "of what is called kingly dignity. I never realised what it was, however, until I looked at his. At that moment he was every inch a king."
"Father and mother dead," he said, "and my country in danger. There is no doubt now; no doubt at all."
The others did not understand what he meant at the time, but they have learnt since.
"My friends," he began in a softer voice than he had yet used, "my kind friends, you see how this news has affected me. Will you give me time to think it over?"
They were about to withdraw in order to leave him alone with his thoughts.
"Will your Majesty believe that all I have is at your Majesty's disposal?" said Brockford, in an undertone before he left.
Max started as if he had been stung.
"No, no!" he cried, "you must not call me that."
An hour later he was back at Brockford's house at Paquetá, where for some hours he shut himself up and would see nobody. He was fighting the greatest battle of his life. During the afternoon he called for all the newspapers that could be procured, in order that he might study the war from its commencement. Later on he left his room and found the other two men in the garden. Traces of the struggle he had passed through still lingered on his face as he greeted them. It was plainly seen that he had arrived at a decision.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I ask you to give me your words of honour, that what I am about to say shall never pass your lips."
He waited for them to speak. They looked first at each other and then at him. At last they gave him their assurance that his wish should be respected.
"I have fought it out by myself," he said, "and have come to a conclusion. I shall return to Pannonia at once!"
"God bless you!" muttered Brockford, but not so low that Max could not hear it.
"My country is at war, and if she is to be victorious, every son who has the strength to wield a sword should rally to her assistance. It is my intention to go back and offer my services, not in the capacity of her king, but taking my place beside the humblest in the ranks. I place my life in the hands of God, and leave the issue with Him. If Pannonia is victorious, then I shall have proved my love for her, and it is possible that what you wish may some day come to pass. If not, then I shall have done what I shall always believe to have been my duty."
"In that case, I have a request to make," said Bertram nervously.
"What is it?" Max inquired. "It would be hard if I could not grant it, seeing that I already owe you a debt I never can repay."
"It is that, if you are going, you will allow me to accompany you?"
"You shall do so if you wish," said Max quietly, and as he said it he held out his hand, which the other took.
Two days later Max and Bertram sailed for Europe.
Of the various vicissitudes which befell our unhappy country from the time that, egged on to ruin by unscrupulous men, she drove her sovereign across the border to seek an asylum elsewhere, it would be impossible for me to speak in anything like detail. It must suffice, therefore, that the long record of chicanery and blundering, of mismanagement and oppression found its climax in the war to which I referred at the end of the previous chapter. Dark as the outlook seemed, it was destined to become even blacker before many months were passed. The battles which marked the opening of the campaign have long since become a matter of history, partly by reason of the desperate heroism shown by our troops, but more, I fear, on account of the inability and blunderings of their leaders. How heartrending that time was to us I must leave my readers to imagine. Max seemed lost for ever; I was in exile, and yet we were compelled to remain inactive, watching our devoted country rushing headlong to the ruin which had been so long prophesied for it. Had it not been for the counsels of my friends I should have returned to Pannonia at the outbreak of hostilities, and have offered myself for service in her army in any capacity they might have chosen for me. This, however, I was earnestly implored not to do. Accordingly I remained in England, watching the struggle with an aching heart, dreading the worst, yet unable to do anything to avert the catastrophe I felt sure must come. Then came the chance I was so eagerly awaiting, and, as all the world knows, on the sixteenth of September, a most fateful day in Pannonia's history, the Republic was overthrown, and, at the unanimous wish of the country, I returned to act as Regent until my brother's whereabouts should be discovered. Of the emotions I experienced when once more I set foot upon Pannonian soil, I will not speak here. They are too sacred for the cold publicity of print.
Having thus roughly summarised the events that occurred between the time that Max and Bertram had decided to see service in Pannonia, and my return to that country, I must now follow the record of my brother's doings. Of all the strange events in Max's life, there was not one stranger or more characteristic of him than his decision in this matter. It was on the 31st of July, that is to say, a fortnight before the battle of Depzig, the same in which our forces suffered such a disastrous defeat, that he set foot with his faithful companion upon his native soil. A week later, as if to make amends, General Groplau, with a zeal and gallantry that is beyond all praise, met and defeated a force of the enemy much greater than his own. It was with his army that Max took service, not as became his rank, but in the capacity of a private soldier. That he and his companion had seen service before soon became apparent, but little did anyone guess that the stalwart, handsome man, who did not know the meaning of the word fear, who was never tired, and whose only apparent desire was to be placed where the danger was greatest, was none other than their king. During the first month of his new life he was present at no less than three battles, in each of which he displayed conspicuous heroism. Brave as our soldiers were, such valour as his could scarcely fail to have passed unnoticed. But it was not until that dreadful day when Gredlau was lost, and all the officers of his own regiment had been killed, and he had rallied what remained of the men, continuing the fight until they were nearly all disabled and shot down, that any recognition of his bravery was afforded him. Then he was summoned to the general's presence. He had been wounded in the arm, and was still weak from loss of blood.
"Your conduct has been reported to me," said the general, who, being a brave man himself, could recognise courage in others. "I can only regret that your efforts were not rewarded with success. I am proud to offer you a commission in the regiment you have served so well. I know of no man who has a better right to it."
Max saluted.
"Pardon me, general," he said respectfully, but firmly, "but—but, with your permission, I must decline the honour."
"Decline the honour!" cried the other in surprise, and also with some asperity. "What do you mean? Surely you understand the honour that has been done you?"
"I understand perfectly," Max replied. "Yet I would prefer to remain as I am."
Whatever the general's thoughts may have been, it is certain that his surprise equalled them. His experience of men had shown them to be more ready to seek rewards than to decline them. However, he had no time to analyse such a phenomenon just then.
"As you please, as you please," he answered. "Remain in the ranks if you prefer it. It seems to me, however, that you are throwing away the one chance of your life."
Then calling one of his aides-de-camp, he turned his attention to another matter, and Max, having saluted, returned to his bivouac. But though the general appeared to have set the matter aside, it did not seem as if he had altogether forgotten it, for later on, commenting on the incident, he said to one of his officers, "That man's face worries me. He is like a person I have seen before, but I cannot, for the life of me, think whose face it is, or where I met its owner."
On two other occasions Max came even nearer to being discovered. A week or so later he was on sentry duty, when a man, who had for many years acted as intermediary between the Count von Marquart and our father in England, stopped his horse and addressed a question to him. For a moment Max thought he could scarcely fail to recognise him, but the beard he wore, and the uniform of a private soldier must have changed his appearance, for the officer passed on without comment. The third occasion, however, was more desperate than either I have yet described.
It was in the early morning on the day when the battle of Hehnsdorff was fought, and Max's regiment, with two others of the line, were sent to occupy the village on the right bank of the river. For hours they defended it with the tenacity of despair. At last, the general, seeing that it was hopeless to continue to hold it, despatched an aide with an order to the officer in command to abandon it and to fall back upon a wood some three-quarters of a mile or so to the rear. The aide had scarcely entered the main street of the little hamlet, when a shell burst in the road, killing his horse and tearing a great gaping wound in the young fellow's side. Seeing what had happened, Max, who, with Bertram and several others, was in a cottage close at hand, ran to his assistance. It was a shocking spectacle they had before them, but, despite the blood, Max recognised the man. Picking him up as tenderly as possible, he bore him to the cottage where the commander was located.
The poor fellow had just strength enough left to say, "The general bids you retire, and take up your position in the wood behind the church," when his head fell forward and he fainted. A moment later the order was given, the village was vacated, and the troops were slowly and sullenly retiring in the direction indicated. The aide-de-camp still lay where they had placed him, his life-blood slowly ebbing from him and forming a pool by his side.
"He's a man I've known all my life," said Max hoarsely to Bertram. "I can't leave him here. Between us we'll carry him to the rear, though I fear the surgeons can do nothing for him."
Thus encumbered they set off across the open ground, now being ploughed by the shells of the enemy. How it was they were not hit it is impossible to say, yet, incredible as it may appear, they reached the wood in safety. On the further side the surgeons were at work, and thither they bore the dying man. But officer or no officer, it was necessary that he should wait his turn, and seeing this, Max placed him upon the ground and endeavoured to make him as comfortable as possible. That his case was hopeless there could be no sort of doubt. Indeed, he was little more than a dead man as it was. Rising to his feet, for he had been kneeling beside the other, Max was about to return to where his comrades had taken up their position, when the wounded man opened his eyes and looked up at him. Max saw that he was trying to speak, and he accordingly knelt down beside him, for he saw that the other had recognised him.
"Your Majesty," he whispered. Then after a pause he added, "Thank God you are found at last!"
"Hush! hush!" Max replied. "I am no king, only a Pannonian soldier!"
"You are both," gasped the dying man. "They have searched everywhere for you. This must be told."
"No, no!" answered Max. "I can never consent."
But the other was not to be denied. Putting forth all the strength that remained in him, he raised himself and called one of the doctors by name.
The surgeon, who happened to be disengaged at the moment, hastened towards him. Before he could reach him, however, the poor fellow had fallen upon the ground, and was dead. With a cold sweat upon his forehead, such as the fear of battle had never been able to produce, Max staggered to his feet.
"He is dead," said the doctor, after a brief examination. "Poor Fritz! poor Fritz! it will break his mother's heart. Where did this happen, my man?"
"In the village yonder," Max replied. "He was conveying an order to our colonel to retire."
Then with a choking feeling in his throat he made his way, accompanied by Bertram, to the wood.
"That was a very near thing for you," said the latter, as they hurried along. "Oh, why won't you declare yourself and take up the position which is yours by right?"
"Not yet, not yet," said Max, shaking his head. "Fate will decide everything for me in good time. I intend to leave it to her."
Fate very nearly decided it for him on three occasions during the next few hours. Once his helmet was knocked off by a bullet, once he was only saved by the butt of his rifle, which he had lowered to reload, while on the third occasion he was giving water to a wounded man, who had fallen beside him, when a bullet shattered the bottle he held in his hand.
Next morning it was rumoured in the camp that I, Prince Paul, had returned to Pannonia, that the Republic was no more, and that the Ramonyi dynasty had come to its own again. Later in the day the news was officially communicated to the troops, and with his comrades, ragged, tattered, weary, half-starved, and altogether forlorn, Max swore allegiance to himself. A more grotesque situation could scarcely be imagined.
"Prince Paul is declared Regent for his brother," said a grey-haired sergeant, as they ate their frugal supper by the camp fire. "I wonder where the king is?"
I have often conjectured what he would have said had he known that the missing man was at that moment seated beside him.
Strange though it may seem, from the very moment of the return of our family to Pannonia, a change took place in the war. Success after success crowned our efforts, in consequence of which our troops took heart, until, at last, instead of carrying on the strife in our own country, on the twenty-second day of October we, for the first time, crossed the borders, driving the enemy before us. Little by little, but with a sureness and steadiness there could be no mistaking or denying, Groplau was working out the plan he had long since formed in his mind. With what sort of good fortune it was attended all those who have followed the history of the war will be familiar. They will recall how fifty thousand troops, by culpable negligence on the part of the enemy's leaders, were divided into two portions and were prevented from uniting again; how the Count von Leckstein, by a swift flank movement, cut off their retreat, thus compelling them to take refuge in the city of Zaarfburg. No success could have been more complete, no movement more thoroughly prepared, or more admirably carried out. Contesting every inch of the way, fighting with the fury that was the outcome of despair, for they must have known that they were lost, hemmed in on every side, they at length entered the gates of the same city as that into which Rudolf the Brave had once brought a victorious army and more than two thousand prisoners. Still working with the same mathematical precision, Groplau's army took up its position on the plain that surrounded it, and there and then the siege commenced. Winter came and found the garrison still holding out. It was, however, as impossible for them to escape as it was for us to get in. Their vigilance was only equalled by our own. In other parts of the country the war was proceeding with varying success; here, however, save for the continual artillery duel, there was little or no fighting. The suspense, to say nothing of the inactivity, was wearying in the extreme, until, at last, every one felt convinced that something must be done to relieve it.
"It seems strange," said Bertram to Max one day, as they stood watching the picturesque old city across the river, "that it should be so difficult to get inside those walls. Surely there must be some way of managing it?"
"That's just what I've been thinking lately," answered Max. "I should very much like to make the attempt. It would be an adventure after my own heart."
"If you are willing to try," returned the other, "I would go into it with you. What a grand thing it would be!"
"If only we could open the gates to admit our troops!" said Max. "It seems impossible at first glance, but we might do our best. Even if we did not succeed it would not very much matter. I've a good mind to ask permission to make the attempt."
That evening he announced that he had been fortunate enough to obtain his commanding officer's consent to investigate the walls and river bank with a view to entering the city.
"You can never succeed," said that gruff and grim old officer when he had heard everything, "and your life will in all probability pay the forfeit. But you have earned the right to make the attempt, my lad, and if you are willing to be such a fool as to run the risk, Heaven forbid that I should attempt to prevent you. Try your luck, and let me know, if you are not killed, how you succeed."
Permission having been thus grudgingly obtained, Max and Bertram repaired to their quarters to work out their plans and to make the preparations for the adventures of the evening. Undeterred by any thought of the risk they would run, they worked away as happily as schoolboys. A little before midnight they left the camp and made their way cautiously across the open country toward the somewhat sluggish river that made the circuit of the city walls. Fortunately for them the night was dark, and a thick drizzle was falling, blotting out the landscape effectually, and making it extremely difficult to see more than a few yards ahead. Though they knew that for this reason the guards would in all probability be more on the alert than usual, they had the consolation of knowing that the chances were that, hidden by the mist, their presence would be less likely to be discovered than on other occasions. For some time past a certain portion of the wall had exercised a great fascination for Max. The particular section in question was not a great distance removed from the main gate, and, for more reasons than one, it seemed to him that if an attack was to be made at all this was the place at which it should be attempted. It was towards this point, accordingly, that they directed their steps, proceeding with the greatest caution, until at length they reached the river's bank.
"It strikes me we're likely to have a cold swim," Max whispered to his companion, as he looked across the water. "Keep as close to me as you can, and, above all, make no noise. If you do they'll fire upon us that instant."
A few moments later they were in the water, striking out for the opposite bank. As Max had predicted, the water was bitterly cold; fortunately, however, they were both strong swimmers, and the distance was not sufficiently great to subject them to any great amount of risk so far as cramp was concerned.
As they got a footing on the opposite bank, above them towered the city wall, rising to a height of scarcely less than forty feet. At its foot, and directly in front of them, was a strip of sloping bank some six or eight feet in width. Taking care to make no noise, even though it would be scarcely likely to be heard had they done so, they climbed up, and then carefully walked along this narrow platform, pausing now and again to carefully examine the wall and to make a note of the facilities it presented for effecting the purpose they had in view. Much to their disappointment, however, no fitting place presented itself. It is true that with the assistance of a ladder it might have been possible to scale the wall, but the strip of bank before referred to was so short and narrow, and the height of the wall itself was so great, that the number of ladders which could have been set upon it would have been quite inadequate to carry the force of men necessary to ensure the success of such a gigantic undertaking.
"And yet it is the only place," said Max, in a disappointed whisper, "in the whole circuit of the walls where it would be safe to try. Let me get fifty men over at this point and I guarantee to seize the main gate and to have the troops in the city before anyone could tell what had happened. As it is, there is nothing for it but for us to return and to test some other place another night."
Seeing that it was no use their remaining, and remembering that every moment they delayed added to their danger, they determined to set off. As noiselessly as otters, therefore, they slipped into the water and re-crossed the river. Immediately on their return to camp, Max reported himself to his commanding officer and informed him of the ill-success which had followed their enterprise.
"As I expected," he answered, when they had unfolded to him the various details of the attempt.
"However, it's a good thing you got back safely and without arousing their suspicions. Do I understand you to say that you desire to try your luck again?"
"Again and again until we succeed," Max replied. "There must be some way of getting in, if it can only be found. I mean to find it."
The colonel looked curiously at the man before him. He noticed that he did not speak like a common soldier, and he wondered what his history could be. He asked one or two further questions, and then bade him return to his quarters, giving them permission to make the attempt again, if they were still crack-brained enough to desire to do so.
The next night proved too fine for the attempt, but on the night following, having made a careful inspection of the neighbourhood during the day, and finding that it was sufficiently dark for them to cross the river, they set off. This time, however, they met with no better success than before, and returned from their expedition disappointed, but by no means disheartened.
"No," said Max to Bertram, when they discussed the matter in solemn conclave afterwards, "there can be no sort of doubt about one thing, and that is the fact that the place we first tried near the main gates is the point, and the only one that is likely to serve our purpose."
For the next few days he was occupied in a brown study, turning and twisting the situation in his mind. Then an idea occurred to him, an idea so luminous that he wondered he had not thought of it before. He described it to Bertram, who, sanguine as ever, declared that it could not be anything but successful. They therefore set off once more to interview the colonel, to whom Max explained his scheme.
"I scarcely know what to say," the other replied, when he had heard him out. "The notion certainly seems feasible enough, and, given a considerable slice of luck, might possibly succeed; the question is, however, whether the enemy would allow it to be carried out. One small slip and it would result in afiasco. However, I will lay it before General Groplau without delay, and hear what he has to say. If there is any chance of success in it you may be sure it will be tried. The Prince Regent is expected here next week, and I have no doubt the general would like to present him with the keys of the city as a souvenir of his first visit to his army."
Bertram has since informed me that Max turned very pale on hearing this. The colonel, however, was too much occupied with another matter, which had just been presented to him to notice his consternation. Even had he done so, I doubt very much whether he would have had any suspicion of the cause which had given rise to it. Later that evening he sent an orderly to call Max to his presence once more.
"I have spoken to the general," he said, "and I may tell you that he is favourably inclined towards the scheme you have submitted. He desires to question you upon the subject personally, so that you had better make your way to his quarters with me and tell him everything."
Max did as he was directed, and followed his colonel along the hillside to the château, where General Groplau had taken up his residence. The General was in his study.