"Your commanding officer," he said, as Max entered, "has informed me that you and one of your fellow-men are desirous of making an attempt to enter the city. Furnish me, in detail, with your plan."
Thus encouraged, Max set to work and gave the general an outline of the idea he had formed in his own mind. After he had finished, the other rapped upon the writing-table softly with his fingers, and his brow was knitted in thought. On his calling for a plan it was brought to him, and he studied it attentively.
"I hear you have already crossed the river under cover of night. Is this so?"
Max respectfully replied that it was, whereupon the other put several further questions to him. When he had heard the answers he once more turned to the plan before him.
"You have an adventurous spirit," he said, looking up after some minutes had elapsed, "I have heard of you before. If I am not mistaken, you are the man to whom I offered a commission, and who surprised me by declining it. Is not that so?"
Max replied in the affirmative, and when he saw the searching way in which the general scanned his face, began to wish he had not been so ready to come to headquarters.
"Well, well," said the other at last, "you have your own reasons, I suppose; reasons which have nothing whatsoever to do with me. However, with regard to this scheme of yours, it seems feasible, and if you are willing to make the attempt I shall be pleased to grant you the necessary permission. A dark night must be chosen, however, and the men must be selected with the utmost care. If your attempt is successful, you will have done a deed which I do not think you will have reason ever to regret. If it fails, I don't suppose we shall hear of you again. Now you can go and make your preparations. Inform your commanding officer of everything you do. And, above all, do not act until you hear from me."
Thus encouraged, Max spent the next few days in preparing for the desperate attempt upon which he and Bertram had so set their hearts. There was so much to be done, so many matters to be arranged; there were competent and trustworthy men to be chosen and instructed in the parts they were to play, and, above all, there was the necessity of preventing the enemy from having any suspicion of what they were about to do.
December 12th, as, alas! many unfortunate families have good reason to remember, opened with sunshine, and was more like a spring than a winter's day. Towards noon, however, clouds appeared in the sky, and as day closed in, snow commenced to fall, and showed every sign of continuing. Nothing could have been better suited to the expedition Max had in view. To his commanding officer he applied for permission to act that night, which permission, all the necessary preparations being made, was readily accorded him. It was still snowing heavily, and, in consequence, the night was so dark and thick that it was scarcely possible to see half a dozen steps ahead. Sad though the recollections of that dreadful time must naturally be to me, for the honour of my House, I like to try and picture Max as he was at that moment. It was his fertile brain which had originated the scheme; it was he who was leading the assault. His valour was well known to the men who were accompanying him, and they would follow wherever he might lead; nevertheless, I fancy they would have gone with him with even greater eagerness had they been aware that their leader was also their king. In order that their presence should run no risk of attracting attention, the order was given to advance towards the river in skirmishing order. Once there they laid themselves down in a sheltered spot upon the bank and waited while Max, who this time would not permit Bertram to accompany him, made his preparations for crossing the river. A small raft, capable of carrying the implements and the stores it was necessary he should take with him, had already been built, and this, with its precious cargo, was now placed in the stream. The men had been instructed before setting out that not a word was to be spoken or a movement made until Max rejoined them. Then, creeping down the bank he lowered himself into the black, icy water below, and struck out for mid-stream, pushing his raft before him as he went. So heavy was the snowstorm, and consequently so dark was the night, that he could see nothing of his direction, and was therefore compelled to trust mainly to chance, in order to arrive safely at the proper spot on the other side. Above all, he knew he must make no noise. While, under existing conditions, he had small fear of being observed by the sentries on the battlements above, yet he had no desire to run any unnecessary risks.
Only let one of them, he argued, entertain the least suspicion of what was going on below, and farewell to the success of his plans. As events turned out, he was luckier than he expected to be. Having made better allowance for the sluggish current than he had imagined, he was at last rewarded by feeling the further side of the raft grating against the bank. Next moment his feet touched the bottom, and he knew that he was at his destination. So far, everything had progressed admirably, but it was at this point that his real work began. Having reached the security of the bank, he removed the various articles from the raft, drew it out of the water, and placed it carefully against the wall. He feared that if he sent it floating on down stream, it might chance to be observed from the gates, and thus suspicion be aroused. Then, with as little noise as possible, he set to work to dig a hole at the foot of the wall; this finished, he began another one, a short distance further along the shelving bank. The ground was frozen, and so loud did the ring of the pick seem upon it that every moment he expected to receive a challenge from the walls above and to hear a bullet whistle across the water.
In something less than an hour, however, the mines with which he had been furnished were properly laid, after the fashion in which he had been instructed by the engineers. Now, if only he could manage to apply the match to the slow fuses unseen by the enemy, and to make his way back to the men who were waiting for him on the opposite bank, all appeared as if it would be well. Using the raft he had brought with him as a screen, he lit a match and applied it to the fuse. As soon as it had ignited, he crept along the bank and did the same to the second mine; then, having reassured himself that both were burning steadily, he slipped into the water and struck out to join his comrades, and to await the result of his labours. As he reached the opposite shore the clocks in the beleagured city struck midnight, the hour at which the remainder of troops were to take up their positions at the various posts assigned to them. Snow was still falling heavily, and the wind blew mournfully across the plain as if in anticipation of the agonising drama that was soon to be acted. The fuses were timed to burn in twenty minutes, and before that time had elapsed it was certain that the guards would be changed at the main gates, the objective it was so necessary they should reach. To the hundred men crouching upon the bank every minute seemed an hour. To Max, wet and cold as he was, each was like an eternity. He was possessed by all sorts of fears. What if the fuses should have gone out! What if any mistake should have been made in the arrangements, and the troops not be in their proper places at the stipulated time! What if, when they had broken in, the garrison should turn out and intercept them before they could reach the main gate and overpower the guard! In the horrible uncertainty of the moment, anything seemed likely to happen. Again and again he tried to be patient, but his efforts were in vain. Surely the fuses must be near the mines by this time. If daylight should come all would be lost. He looked about him as the thought occurred, almost expecting to see the dawn breaking over the mountains. Then, with a suddenness that was terrifying, and with a roar that might have been heard for many miles, and with a wealth of flame that lit up the country-side, the first of the mines exploded, followed scarcely an instant later by its fellow. For a moment the air was filled with the shattered fragments of the walls, some of which fell among the men waiting on the river bank, some in the river itself, but none in the doomed city. Then Max sprang to his feet.
"Come, my lads," he cried, "follow me!"
Rifle in hand he dashed into the river, the men imitated his example, and almost before anyone could have told what had happened they were half-way to the other side. Before they reached the opposite bank, however, the sound of another explosion on the further side of the city came to them, followed by a heavy cannonading and the shrieking of shells. It was the ruse which they had arranged to adopt in order to make the enemy believe that the principal attack would take place on that side. Panting after their swim, the men clambered up the bank, which was now littered with fragments of masonry. A breach between thirty and forty feet in length had been made in the wall, and through this they dashed. In the city, by this time, the bells were pealing and bugles sounding. The street, however, immediately behind the breach was empty, and now a distance of scarcely a hundred yards separated them from the main gate.
"On, on, my lads!" cried Max; and with his party behind him he dashed along the thoroughfare. As he was well aware, the success of their enterprise depended upon the next few minutes. If they could not capture the gate, all the rest was useless. At last they reached the corner of the street in which stands the ancient church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. It looked very peaceful in its white mantle, but, sad to say, that mantle was destined to be stained with crimson soon enough. Only a few yards now separated them from the gate, and already, by the light of the great lantern above the arch, they could discern the hurrying figures of the guard.
"Charge!" cried Max, in a voice that rang through the deserted square like a trumpet-call. A moment later, they were upon the enemy, and the ghastly carnage had commenced. Never before had the old church looked down upon such a scene. The issue, however, was never for a moment in doubt. Outnumbered as they were, desperate as were their efforts to hold the gate, the struggle had scarcely begun before it was ended. The main entrance to the city being now in their possession, Max struck a match and applied it to the precious rocket he had brought with him for that purpose. There was a slight hissing noise, and then the fiery note of triumph shot up into the darkness, throwing out myriad blue lights to acquaint the troops who were waiting outside that the capture of the gate had been effected. By this time, however, the guns which had been trained upon the bridge from the market square were manned by gunners, and a hail of grape was showered upon the gallant little band. The keys of the gate were, of course, in the possession of the governor of the city, but Max knew that before many minutes could elapse the engineers would be blowing it in, as if it were of tissue paper. All this time the three guns were doing terrible execution. Almost half of his small force had fallen, and he knew that unless they were stopped certain death would be the portion of the remainder.
"Those guns must be silenced!" he cried. "Forward, my lads, and let us do it!"
The gallant fellows replied with a cheer, and, regardless of the storm of bullets that was being poured in upon them, dashed across the stones of the market-place towards the spot where the guns stood. It was madness even to dream that they could be successful, but the madness, if madness it were, was certainly heroic. Rudolf Kellerman, the giant corporal of Max's own company, fell, shot through the heart, before they had advanced ten yards; fair-haired Otto Stedicz, who looked like a poet, and who fought like a devil, was struck down a few yards further on. The heavy fire was more than flesh and blood could face, and for a moment the men wavered. Max, however, called to them to come on. Gaining fresh courage by his example, they hurled themselves upon the gunners. Once there nothing could stand against them. The men went down like corn before the sickle. They had scarcely captured them, however, before the welcome sound of an explosion reached them from the main gate. The great doors, which had remained closed for so long, were burst asunder, and immediately our troops poured into the city. Furious cannonading was still proceeding on the other side, while the garrison, roused from sleep, and surrounded on every hand, were unable to tell what to do or whom to attack first. One portion of the troops hastened to the west side, the remainder, marching to the east, were met by the brigade which had entered through the main gate. Meanwhile, another strong detachment of our army had crossed the river, and having made its way in, by means of the breach by which Max and his party had entered, passed quickly through the streets to the great square of the city, thus effectually preventing the two forces from joining company again. So swiftly and well were these arrangements carried out, that no hitch of any sort occurred, and though for some little time the fighting was very severe in certain quarters, when day dawned the enemy's general, seeing how futile further resistance would be, capitulated, and thus the city fell into our hands.
All the arrangements having been completed, and as soon as General Groplau was at liberty to think of other things, he gave orders that inquiries should be made concerning the whereabouts of the man to whom their great success was mainly due.
To take up the thread of my story again at the point where I left off, in order to describe the victory gained by our troops, it is necessary that I should revert to the disastrous effect upon Max's small force. Feeling sure that it would only be a question of time before the guns would be retaken from him, and realising that if they were left in their present position, they would in all human probability be turned upon the brigade now entering by the main gate, he and his men between them dragged them from the spot to a dark alley on the other side of the square, where it was unlikely they would be found in time to work further mischief. They had scarcely done this before they, in their turn, were compelled to beat a retreat before a regiment that was coming towards them at the double. Nothing was left, therefore, but for them to ascend the steps leading to the old church to which I have before referred. Seeing them, the enemy poured a volley into the portico of the sacred building, and then prepared to drive them out with the bayonet. Here, however, the small band that was left had somewhat of an advantage. Being in the dark themselves, and having what light there was in front of them, they could see their foes, who could not see them. Wearied, however, as they were, it was impossible that they could hold out for long. The pile of the dead that lay at the foot of the steps when dawn broke was a proof, if any were wanted, of the gallantry with which they fought. It was not long before a force was despatched to their assistance, and the enemy retired, having lost thirty men in that short encounter.
"Who are you, and how do you come to be here?" inquired the officer of the relieving force, as he ascended the steps. Max informed him, but had scarcely sufficient strength left to articulate the words. When he had finished he fell back against the wall, knowing that he was wounded, and believing it to be to the death. The officer—it was Fritz von Mulhaus—caught him in his arms before he could touch the ground, while Bertram, who was unwounded, hastened to his side. Between them they laid him gently down.
"Let me lie so," said Max; "I think it is all over with me now. Can you tell me if the city is ours?"
"There is not the least doubt about it, I should say," Mulhaus replied. "And if it is, we owe it to you."
"And to the brave fellows who accompanied me," answered Max, faintly. "I could have done nothing without them. And now you must not stay with me. I shall be quite comfortable here."
But Mulhaus would not be sent away. Whatever the circumstances might be, he would not leave him until he had seen him conveyed to a house near by, and until he himself had given orders that a surgeon should be sent for.
"Have you discovered what became of the man who led the storming party?" inquired General Groplau, when his aide-de-camp returned to the house which he had made his headquarters.
"I have seen him, sir," the officer replied; "and I have questioned the surgeon who is attending him. If he is not a dead man by this time, he very soon will be."
"That is sad news, indeed," answered the general. "He was a brave man, and there is no doubt that we owe all our success to him. I should have liked to have presented him to Prince Paul. He would have rewarded him as he deserves. Well, well, it's the fortune of war."
Two hours earlier I had crossed the Border, and at mid-day, if all went well, I should be with the army. At ten o'clock, as we halted in a tiny village, news was brought me from the front, and, for the first time, I learnt the story of the city's downfall. The officer who brought it gave me a description of a certain private soldier's bravery, and informed me that the brave fellow was reported to be mortally wounded.
"God grant he may live till I have an opportunity of giving him my thanks for the service he has rendered his king and country."
Then turning to one of the equerries, with whom Max had played as a boy, I continued, "This is a deed which the king would have loved to share."
Then we pushed on for the city, little knowing the surprise that awaited me there.
It was with feelings of the liveliest gratitude to Providence, and pride in our gallant soldiers, that I reached the city of Zaarfburg, some ten hours or so after its capitulation. A large proportion of the army corps which had so long invested it was drawn up on the plain to receive me. The remainder were occupied in the city itself, where also, at the time of my arrival, was General Groplau himself, busied with affairs of State. A more triumphal progress than I made through the cheering soldiery could scarcely be imagined; indeed, if any proof were wanting of the popularity of the return of our house to Pannonia, it might have been discovered in their enthusiasm. For the time being discipline appeared to be thrown to the winds; helmets were waved on bayonet points, salvo after salvo of cheering followed me along the line, until, at one point, it was with the utmost difficulty I could urge my horse forward, so eager were the men to press about me and to assure me of their loyalty and devotion. At last, however, we reached the bridge, the same which leads to the now famous city. What would I not have given to have had Ottilie beside me then? It was a moment to be remembered all one's life long. As I write, the whole scene rises before my eyes. Once more I can see the old stone gateway, the long wall on either side of it, broken in one place, where Max and his storming party had made their desperate entry, and from the gateway itself General Groplau and his staff advancing to receive me. There were tears in the old man's eyes as he came forward to welcome me in the name of the army, and an unaccustomed huskiness in his voice as he spoke the words. He had done his duty, and the pleasure of being in a position to hand me the keys of the city, whose fall it was well known would practically bring about the end of the war, was not the smallest part of his reward. Side by side we passed under the arch, and emerging into the city itself, made our way towards the Council House, which, for the time being, he had made his headquarters. Here a State Council was convened, at which many important matters connected with the capture of the city and the treatment of the prisoners were discussed. After this the various officers who had especially distinguished themselves during the siege, and also in the capture of the city that day, were presented to me.
"And now, General," said I, this latter ceremony being at an end, "what news have you to give me of the man to whose bravery we, to all intents and purposes, owe the city? The messenger you sent to me this morning informed me that he was seriously wounded, and that the gravest doubts were entertained as to his recovery."
"I regret having to inform your Royal Highness that the man's condition is desperate in the extreme," the general replied. "He now lies in the house to which he was conveyed immediately after he was discovered. All that is possible has been done, but I fear without avail. His condition was hopeless from the first."
"Pray take me to him," I said, "in order that I may thank him for the service he has rendered his king and country. Since his condition is so dangerous, it would be inadvisable to postpone the matter for any length of time. Let us, therefore, set off at once."
So saying, we left the Council Hall, and made our way towards the house to which the dying man had been carried. There is nothing in this world presents a sadder picture, I think, than a city a few hours after it has been captured by the enemy. While the actual fighting continues there is an excitement which relieves the tension, but when all is over, and nothing more remains to be done, its condition is pitiable in the extreme. Traces of the recent struggle were to be observed on every hand. Half-starved men, women, and children wandered aimlessly about the streets, patrols marched by continually with prisoners; here and there were bodies of dead men, which the bearers had not yet had time to collect and remove; while the guns, which had wrought such havoc on the little band who had first entered the city and seized the main gate, still stood in the place to which they had been dragged, bearing eloquent testimony to the heroism which had conveyed them thither. At last we reached the house for which we were making. It was the residence of one Jacob Hertz, a watchmaker, whom, when we entered, we found seated on his bench, as deeply immersed in his work as if there had been no such thing as war, and nothing worth attending to in life save the mechanism of the chroniclers of time on the shelf beside him. It was not until later that we learnt that his wife and daughter had died during the siege, and that his only remaining son had been killed that morning in the attack upon the gate. Providence, more merciful than man, had deprived him of his senses, and thus his misery sat more lightly upon him than others. I made it my business, when everything was settled, in memory of the brother I loved so well, to provide for his remaining days. It was reported to me, however, that my action, well intended though it was, was of small avail, for he took no interest in anything save his business, remaining to the end an eloquent, though a by no means solitary, witness of one of the most sanguinary struggles this nineteenth century has seen.
A messenger had previously informed the doctor in charge of the sick man of our coming, and that official now waited upon us. Groplau presented him to me, and I inquired the condition of his patient.
"I fear it is a hopeless case," he answered, shaking his head, "'Tis a wonder indeed that he is alive now to see your Highness. All that science can do has been done for him, and now I think it would be more charitable to allow him to reach the end without subjecting him to any further torture."
"I am sorry to hear that," I said. "It certainly seems hard that he should not live to reap the reward of his bravery. By the way, have you any idea of his history? General Groplau informs me that some time since, when he offered him a commission, he declined the honour for reasons of his own. I should like to know all you can tell me concerning him, that I may help him if possible."
"I can tell your Highness nothing," the doctor replied. "From what I know of him, he is a very reserved fellow, and though his comrades have for a long time regarded him as a hero, and would do anything for him, he has only one friend, an Englishman, who is in the room with him now, and who seldom leaves his side."
"An Englishman?" I said, with some surprise. "That is strange. The man himself is, of course, a Pannonian?"
"Without a doubt," the doctor replied. "But since he converses fluently in English with his friend, I should say it is probable that he has spent some considerable time in that country."
Fearing to waste more time, I bade the doctor conduct me to the dying man's room. How little did I dream the discovery I was to make there!
The chamber was situated on the first floor, and looked out upon the street. When I entered the room, a private soldier was bending over the bed, smoothing the pillow beneath the dying man's head. His figure came between us, and for this reason the other's face was hidden from me. The doctor advanced to the bedside, and felt the man's pulse.
"My friend," said he, "let me tell you that you are the recipient of a great honour. His Royal Highness the Prince Regent has paid you the compliment of coming himself to see you."
The man did not answer, but, knowing all that I do now, I can well understand the struggle that was going on within his breast. Then I advanced to the bedside.
"My man," I said, "it is seldom one hears of such bravery as yours. Your general has told me everything, and I have come to thank you in the name of your——"
I had progressed no further than this when I stopped suddenly. A fear such as I had never known in my life before had taken possession of me, rendering me speechless and almost paralysed. No, it could not be true! It was impossible that such a thing could be even thought of. Scarcely daring to trust the evidence of my eyes, I looked again. No, there could be no doubt of it, no doubt at all. The man lying upon the bed before me was none other than Max, Max my brother, the man for whom I had searched throughout the world. With a cry that came from my heart I threw myself beside the bed and took his hand in mine.
"Max! Max!" I cried, regardless of the people standing by, "have I found you at last? At last, Max, at last?"
"At last, Paul," he answered, with a curious smile upon his face. "Yes, you have found me at last."
I could not utter another word, but repeated his name again and again. I had found him, the man for whom I had searched so long, and whom I had scarcely even dared to hope to see again. Yes, it was quite true that I had found him, but in what a state! Mad, indeed, had I been not to have looked for him in the ranks of Pannonia's army. I might have known that when she called he would not be the last to answer. And yet to think of him as he was now.
"Max," I faltered, "why did you not let me know you were here?"
"Because you would have sought me out," he answered. "Believe me, Paul, it is far better as it is. I have no regrets. I have fought for you and for her, and that makes me quite happy."
"You do not know how we have loved you, or how we have searched for you," I said; "and to meet like this! Oh, Max! it is more than I can bear."
At this point the doctor came forward and examined him. I glanced anxiously at the former's face, but what I saw there was not calculated to reassure me. I accordingly drew him on one side.
"Tell me frankly," I said, "is his condition quite hopeless?"
"Quite," he replied. "It is marvellous that he has lingered for so long."
"You are quite sure that nothing can be done for him? Remember that he is the King!"
"I regret having to say that nothing more can be done," said the doctor, visibly moved at my distress.
I turned to Groplau, who was standing at the foot of the bed.
"General," I said, "unknown to you, it was your King who won for you the city."
The general came forward and dropped upon his knee.
"Oh, if your Majesty had only told me!" he said; "if only I had not been so blind!"
"So blind?" asked Max, as if he did not quite understand what the other implied.
"Yes, so blind," the general continued. "Ever since that day on which I offered you the commission, your face has haunted me. I felt sure I had seen it before, but I could not tell where. I did not think of the days when you were a little boy, and played with my sword. If only I had known, how different things would have been!"
"I would rather have them as they are," said Max feebly. "'Tis better so, believe me. If I had to live my life again, I would not omit this portion of it for anything. And now leave me alone with my brother. Something tells me we shall not have much more time together."
The others did as he commanded, and when the door was closed upon them once more, I took my place at his side. He took my hand in his, and his dark eyes looked lovingly upon me.
"Paul," he said, "that old gipsy woman was right after all when she inferred that you would be King. My dear old brother, don't think I grudge you the honour. Heaven knows I do not. You will make a better king that I should ever have done. I have never even been able to rule myself; how much less, then, should I have been able to rule others? And now tell me of yourself. There is not much time to waste. Our mother and father are dead?"
"Yes," I answered; "and they died loving you and speaking of you to the last."
"And Ottilie?"
"She loves you too," I replied. "She has encouraged me in my search for you, and will be stricken with grief when she hears that I have found you too late."
Here I broke down altogether, and sobbed with my head upon my hands.
"My dear old fellow," said Max, stroking my hair, "you must not give way like this. There is nothing to be sorry for. I have fought for my country, and have given my life for her, as so many thousands of other men have done. Fate has played with me all my life, but in death she is kinder than she has ever been before."
There was another short pause, during which I knelt beside him, his hand resting upon my shoulder. Never in my life before had I suffered such agony as I did then. Max, on the other hand, was quite calm; he spoke of our father and mother; later, of our country and her future.
"Please God, happier days are in store for her," he said. "You will make a good king, Paul, and under your rule she will prosper as she has not done for years past. Ottilie will make you a noble queen, and together you will win the love and admiration of your people. I should have liked to see you happy together."
At this I again broke down completely.
"Oh, Max!" I faltered, "do not talk of us. What will anything mean to Ottilie and myself when we have lost you?"
As I spoke I thought of our boyhood, of the old, happy days in Pannonia, when we had been such firm and dear companions. I could recall nothing in Max's character that was not self-sacrificing, and to think that his life should end like this! I took his hand and held it tenderly in mine. Oh, why could I not give my life for his, and thus draw him back from that dark land into which he was so swiftly passing? That the end was very near there could be no doubt. Once more opening his eyes, which had remained closed for upwards of a minute, he whispered to me that he would like to bid farewell to the general and to the man who had been his companion in so many strange places and under such different circumstances. Accordingly, I went to the door and called them in. Groplau was the first to advance towards the bed. The old man was genuinely affected. Max looked up at him and gave him his hand. Not a word passed between them; indeed, speech was unnecessary. There was a long silence, a hand-grip, and then Groplau stepped back, and Bertram, the Englishman, took his place. He made no attempt to conceal his grief. "Good-bye," said Max. "You have been a good friend to me, Bertram; be as faithful to my brother. It is my wish that you should serve him. God bless you both!"
Bertram tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and he turned away with the tears streaming down his face. Then Max looked at me, and I went to him again.
"Paul," he said, but so feebly that I could scarcely hear the words, "it is very near now. God bless you, Paul. Kiss me, dear old brother; we've been——"
Stooping, I kissed him on the forehead, on which the dews of death were quickly gathering.
Then, softly as a tired child, he fell asleep.
Maximilian, the uncrowned King of Pannonia, was dead!
The last moments of a loved friend or relative are, and must be, sacred. Let it suffice, therefore, that for some minutes after my poor brother had drawn his last breath I knelt beside the bed in silent prayer, then, with one last look at the face I loved so well, I left the room, taking Bertram with me. General Groplau would, I knew, make all the necessary arrangements. In the meantime it behoved me to summon another council, and that done, to despatch messengers to the capital with the sad intelligence. Within an hour a proclamation had been issued, and it was known that the King, who had been missing for so long, had in reality been serving with his army, and had given his life, as unostentatiously as its humblest unit, for the country he loved so well. The announcement was received with a sort of stupefaction by the army. If the news caused a sensation in their ranks, however, I could imagine how much greater the surprise would be in Europe generally. Remembering this, one of my first acts was to communicate with Ottilie, in order that she might hear the sad intelligence from me personally, before receiving it from any other source. For you to realise the effect that the finding of Max, under such mournful circumstances, had upon me would be impossible. Indeed, every one and everything around me seemed to share the impression. The silent, almost deserted streets, the unhappy townsfolk (though they were unhappy from another cause), and even the dull, leaden sky overhead, seemed to mourn with me. We had won a great victory, it is true, but at what a cost to me and to the nation of which I was now the head!
The council being over, and the official communication of the news sent forth to the world, I gave orders that Bertram should be admitted to my presence. So far I had not had much opportunity of observing him; now, however, I found him a tall, well-set-up young Englishman of the higher middle class.
"Mr. Bertram," I said in English, "you may remember what my poor brother said to me concerning you, just before he died. He said he trusted that you would be as good a friend to me as you had been to him. May I hope that you will enter my service, as he wished?"
"I will do so, if your Majesty really desires it," he answered. "Though I scarcely know in what capacity I can serve you."
"You can do so by proving yourself my friend," I answered.
Traces of grief still remained upon his face. It was certain that the affection he had shown to Max was genuine, and that he mourned him almost as sincerely as I did myself.
"And now," I said, "I want you to tell me as much as you can of his life since you first met him. Remember, I know nothing. It is all mystery to me. Where did you meet him, and how does it come about that you're in Pannonia together?"
Thereupon he furnished me with a summary of Max's life from the time when they first met in Brazil, beginning with the unhappy diamond expedition, and continuing until the moment was reached when Max fell mortally wounded on the steps of the church in the market-square. From his narrative, I was able to gather something, not only of Max's past life, but also of the character of the man I had before me now. Never once during his recital of the tale did he sound his own praises, or represent himself as playing anything but a secondary part in the drama that was destined to end so tragically. Instinctively I took a liking to the man; perhaps not so much because of the fact that he had been Max's friend as because of what I felt to be his inherent good qualities. When, at my request, he consented to serve me as one of my gentlemen-in-waiting, I felt that I had secured a friend whose fidelity was in no way dependent upon the rewards or emoluments he might receive.
That evening the body of my brother was to be conveyed to the Council Hall, where it would remain closely guarded until the time should arrive for it to be removed to the capital for interment in our grand cathedral, where repose so many of our House. Before Max's remains were taken from the house, I had a last look at his face, and Bertram and I walked quickly back, for the night was cold, to the residence where I had taken up my abode. We had only just left the market-square, and were approaching our destination, when we were suddenly confronted by a man. So cutting was the wind, so keen the sleet that was now driving straight into our faces, that we did not become aware of his proximity until he had collided with Bertram.
"Why don't you look where you are going, my friend?" inquired the other, with a somewhat foreign accent. "Have you no eyes in your head?"
Then he uttered a cry of surprise, and next moment was running down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.
"That was an unmannerly fellow," I said to Bertram, who was standing on the pavement watching the other's receding figure.
To my surprise, however, he did not answer. When he turned his face to me again, dark though it was, I could see that there was a look of extreme astonishment, if not of almost consternation, upon it.
"What is the matter?" I inquired, I fear a little sharply. "Why do you look like that?"
"That man," he answered. "I must be mistaken, and yet——"
"And yet what?" I inquired. "Come, my friend, tell me the reason of your extraordinary behaviour."
Bertram hesitated again before he replied.
"I only caught a glimpse of his face," he said at length, "and yet I feel almost certain that the person who ran into me, and who bade me look where I was going, was none other than Rodriguez, one of the men who accompanied us on that fatal journey to the diamond fields in Brazil."
For a moment, for some reason that was not quite apparent to me, he seemed almost beside himself. He must have communicated this feeling to me, for I remember taking him by the arm and laughing loudly, though, Heaven knows, I was not in the humour to laugh at anything.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" I inquired scornfully, as soon as I had somewhat recovered my self-control. "How could he be here now, and why, since he was then in South America, should he be in Zaarfburg, of all places in the world?"
But Bertram did not answer. For the moment it looked as if the shock he had received had been too much for him. Whoever, or whatever, this man Rodriguez may have been, it is quite certain that the mere thought of meeting him again was sufficient to exert a powerful influence over Max's faithful friend. In silence we resumed our walk, and presently reached the house in which I had, for the time being, taken up my residence. Two hours later my poor brother's coffin was conveyed from the clockmaker's house to the city hall, the great council chamber of which had been converted into an impromptuchapelle ardente. A guard was placed upon it, while additional sentries were posted at the outer doors.
At the council meeting that evening, it had been arranged that the remains should be conveyed to Pannonia on the day following, and that I should accompany them to the capital. Accordingly, at noon, amidst the thunder of artillery and the respectful homage of the army, we set out, escorted by a regiment of cavalry, of which Max, as a boy, had been colonel-in-chief. Bertram, who was now a recognised member of my suite, accompanied me.
My story has taken so long to tell that I have no time or space left me in which to do more than briefly summarise that mournful journey. Let it suffice, therefore, that every hamlet and town through which we passed received us with tokens of respect and sorrow. Whenever I think of that mournful time, the picture of our return rises before my mind's eye. Dusk was falling as we entered our ancient capital—the dusk of a cold, raw day, quite in keeping with the sorrow which filled our hearts. We found the streets crowded to their utmost holding capacity. Signs of mourning were to be observed on every hand. Short though the notice had been, the majority of the houses were draped in black, while overhead sounded the mournful tolling of bells. At the entrance to the city I gave up my horse, and for the remainder of the distance followed thecortégemy suite, the governor of the city and his staff, the chief burgomaster and his councillors, imitating my example. As we passed slowly along the Graben towards the cathedral, I recalled the night when Max and I, with our father and mother, had said good-bye to the capital, and had gone into exile. My father and mother had never seen their country again, and now Max was coming back to it, unconscious of the fact, to take his last long rest in the old grey cathedral in which so many of our race lay buried. Slowly and solemnly, to the accompaniment of wailing bands, we crossed the King's Square and approached the majestic pile, whose roofs and parapets towered above us, thickly coated with snow. The deep tones of the bell echoed mournfully in the gathering darkness, while the troops that lined the streets presented arms, and the crowd stood bareheaded as we passed. At last we reached the foot of the cathedral steps, where the white-robed clergy, with the archbishop—the same who had baptised us—at their head, were waiting to receive us. The coffin having been removed from the hearse, and a new procession formed, we entered the church and passed up the central aisle, to the music of the Dead March, towards the spot where a catafalque had been prepared for the lying-in-state. Upon this we placed the casket that contained the remains of our dear one, and when a short service had been conducted, and the guard of honour mounted, we left the cathedral and returned, through the still waiting crowd, to the palace on the other side of the square. On the morrow and the next day there was to be a public lying-in-state; and on the day following, the funeral would take place. In the meantime there was much for us to do. There were the representatives of the various European sovereigns to be received and lodged, the precedence of each to be settled, and their positions allotted by the chamberlains; while there was also the progress of the war, to which it was necessary that I should give almost unremitting attention. Fortunately, however, that was nearly at an end. Indeed, it was as if Max's death had set the final seal upon it. As a matter of fact, it was rumoured that proposals for peace were already in course of formation, and were soon to be submitted. Later in the evening came the news by telegram that Ottilie and her father had crossed the Channel, and were on their way to Pannonia. I had scarcely received it when old Antoine, my ever-faithful groom of the chambers, entered my study to inform me that the Count von Marquart had arrived at the palace, and craved an audience with me.
"Admit him at once," I said; and, indeed, I was glad to see him. His devotion to our House had never wavered. He had been one of the first to greet me on my return to Pannonia, and it seemed only fit and proper that he should hasten to my side when I was in such dire distress as now. Needless to say I greeted him most cordially, and I could see that he was much touched by my reception of him.
"This is a sad meeting indeed," said he, as I gave him my hand. "It has affected me more deeply than I can say."
I could see that what he said was true, for the old man, as he stood before me, was visibly overcome. He asked me certain questions concerning all that had transpired, and furnished me with an outline of the various arrangements he had made. Never before had I realised the extent of the ceremonial which must be observed in such cases. We were still discussing this important matter when Antoine, with a scared expression upon his face, an expression which even his long training could not conceal, entered the room. Through the half-open door I could see old Strekwitz, the Grand Chamberlain, and several people standing outside. Something was undoubtedly wrong, but what that something was I could not even conjecture.
"The Count von Strekwitz craves an audience," said Antoine, more abruptly, I think, than he had ever addressed me before.
"Ask him to be good enough to see me in the morning," I answered sharply. "Do you not notice that I am engaged with the Count von Marquart?"
"But, your Majesty, he states that his business is of the most important nature," Antoine persisted. "He implores you to see him at once, and says that there is not a moment to lose."
"Something has evidently gone wrong with his arrangements," said von Marquart. "Perhaps it would be as well if he were admitted."
"As you please, as you please," I continued, I am afraid, with a little irritation. Then, pulling out my watch, I added, as I looked at it, "It is nearly eleven o'clock. What possible business can he have with me that will not keep until the morning?"
"You will very soon discover," the Count replied. "Perhaps you would wish me to withdraw?"
"By no means," I answered. "It is possible I may stand in need of your advice."
A moment later Strekwitz entered the room, and from the moment that I looked at his face I saw that, whatever his news might be, it was certain he had not disturbed me without good cause. The man was more upset than I had ever yet seen him; his face was as white as the paper upon which I am now writing, while his hand, when he rested it upon the table beside which he stood, shook so that the pens upon the pen-rack trembled and rattled against each other.
"Well, Count, what is the matter?" I inquired. "What brings you here at this hour of the night?"
"The saddest news possible," he replied. "I scarcely know how to tell your Highness."
On hearing this a great fear took possession of me. What was I to learn? Could any disaster have befallen Ottilie? Had that been so, however, von Marquart would have known it before Strekwitz, and I should have heard before both; but it was impossible to be logical at such a moment. When next I spoke I scarcely recognised my own voice, so anxious was it.
"There is nothing to be gained by beating about the bush," I said. "Whatever your tidings may be, let me know the worst. Have you bad news concerning the Princess?"
He shook his head.
"No, it does not concern her Highness," he answered, "yet I fear it will distress your Majesty as much. For my own part, I do not know what to think."
"For goodness sake, man, get on with what you have to say," I answered. "Can't you see how you are distressing me? Let me hear your story at once."
"Your Majesty gave me orders to make the necessary arrangements for the lying-in-state of your lamented brother."
"I did," I replied. "What of that? I know you better than to imagine that you have failed in your duties. What has occurred?"
"Your Majesty informed me that you had brought the body from Zaarfburg?"
"I did. And you were present when it was admitted to the cathedral. What has happened since? Why do you not speak, man?"
"I fear that I must so far contradict your Majesty as to say that I was not present when it was admitted to the cathedral. A great crime has been committed. I mean that it cannot be laid in state,since it is not there!"
"Not there?" I cried, springing to my feet, scarcely able to believe that I had heard aright. "What do you mean by making such a statement? What makes you say such a thing? Are you not aware that I brought it with me from Zaarfburg?"
"I venture to say that it is not there," he returned. "The necessary preparations were made in my presence. On opening the coffin, however, we were amazed to find it empty, save for a few heavy weights. If the body had ever been placed in it while in the city, it must have been removed, either there oren routefor this place."
"My God! what can this mean?" I cried. "Can you swear, Strekwitz, that what you say is correct? Be careful, for I give you my word I am in no mood to be played with."
"Your Majesty should know me well enough by this time to be aware that I would not trifle with you upon such a matter," he answered, somewhat reproachfully. "It has caused me the acutest sorrow. Alas! however, it is as I state."
"In that case what is to be done?"
For the moment the news stunned me, but it was not very long before I realised its dread importance. Von Marquart must also have done so, for once more came the question, this time from him: "What is to be done?" We had not only ourselves, and the country, but the whole of Europe to consider. Von Marquart was the first to recover his composure. Turning to Strekwitz, he said,—
"How many people know this?"
From what the other said it appeared that there were only three people in the secret, in which number he included himself. As soon as the direful discovery was made he had been quick to insist upon the others keeping the intelligence to themselves. He had been so imperative on this point that there was very little fear, he assured me, of their making mischief. To make sure, however, I gave orders that they should be admitted to my presence in the morning, that I might further caution them. Then addressing myself to von Marquart, I said:
"My poor brother's body must be recovered at any cost. But that will take time, and how are we to set about the task? To offer a reward would only be to publish the news abroad."
"Impossible, your Majesty, impossible," von Marquart replied. "In the interests of the country that is not to be thought of. It would be taken as a bad omen, and until the dynasty has been more firmly established, public opinion must be considered before everything else. Let us review the facts of the case and endeavour to discover when and where the crime could have been perpetrated. Where did your Majesty see the dead man for the last time?"
"In the clockmaker's house at Zaarfburg," I replied.
"And the house itself?"
"Was closely guarded," I answered. "From the house the coffin was conveyed to the city hall, where it lay until we started on the journey here."
"Would it have been possible, think you, for it to have been tampered with while at the city hall?"
"Quite impossible, I should say. There were guards at the entrance to the room itself, and sentries were posted at the great doors below. In fact, I would be prepared to swear that no one entered the room save myself and my brother's faithful friend."
"Your brother's friend?" von Marquart repeated suspiciously. "Who is he? Perhaps he can throw some light upon the affair."
This point had never struck me, and I thereupon told Strekwitz to summon Bertram to my presence without delay. He did so, and a few minutes later, the man we wanted entered the room. Strekwitz had told him nothing, so that he was quite unprepared for the news I had to give him. On hearing it his grief was as great, and plainly as sincere, as my own had been.
"I can scarcely believe it," he said, after he had heard what we had to tell. "What possible motive can anyone have had for such a dastardly deed?"
I could furnish him with no answer that would be in any way satisfactory. Strekwitz inclined to the belief that it was the work of the enemy—an act of revenge, in fact, for the defeat they had suffered at our hands. Von Marquart, however, ridiculed the notion.
"No," he said, "there is more behind it than meets the eye. We must look elsewhere for a solution of the mystery."
Suddenly Bertram uttered an exclamation.
"Why on earth didn't I think of it sooner?" he cried. "If I'm not mistaken, I can explain everything."
"What do you mean?" I asked impatiently. "What do you remember? Tell us quickly."
"The man I ran into, in the street at Zaarfburg," he replied. "Rodriguez, who was with us in South America. Was it possible that his appearance in the city was only a coincidence, or had he some more sinister object in view? He was aware of the mysterious marks upon your brother's body, and knew they were connected with the hidden diamonds. Seeing that he was dead, and that he might never have another opportunity, is it not quite possible that he would be anxious to penetrate the secret before it was too late?"
All this was so much Greek to von Marquart and Strekwitz. They knew nothing, it must be remembered, of Max's past life, consequently they had not heard of Moreas, or of the now famous expedition in search of the diamonds. In a few words I enlightened them, and then we fell to considering the problem that Bertram had set before us. His theory, though extraordinary, certainly seemed feasible enough.
"This is what puzzles me, however," said Bertram, who had been silent for a few moments. "If he were able to get near enough to the body to examine it, why did he take it away? It would be of no use to him, and would be a source of continual danger. No! I am very much afraid that there is something else behind it. Some other person is pulling the strings. Rodriguez would be a mere tool."
"One thing is quite certain," said von Marquart, walking towards the fireplace as he spoke, "and that is that we must find this man. If we can once get hold of him we shall be able to discover a way to make him speak. The rest should then be easy."
"But how on earth are we to catch him?" I inquired. "He would scarcely be likely to remain in Zaarfburg. Besides, there is no time. It is only three days before the State funeral will take place, and it is most improbable that we shall be able to regain possession of the body in that short space of time. It will be sad news indeed to give to the world."
"It must not be given," said von Marquart imperatively. "They must know nothing of it."
"But, good heavens! man," I cried, "how is the funeral to take place if the body is still missing?"
"Very easily," he replied. "The public did not doubt you to-night when you passed through the city to the cathedral; the archbishop did not doubt you when he led the way up the aisle; and if every one else holds his tongue, why should not the coffin be placed in the vault without suspicion having been aroused?" Then, dropping his voice a little, and speaking with even greater emphasis than before, he continued: "I tell you as plainly as I can speak that we have no other course open to us. After struggling with what at one time appeared to be insurmountable difficulties, we have at last succeeded in replacing the Ramonyi dynasty upon the throne. It behooves us, therefore, to proceed with the greatest caution possible. One false step may result in destruction to all our hopes. Your poor brother's mysterious absence did a vast amount of harm; his death, however, fighting for his country as he did, retrieved it. I must leave you to understand what the result will be if you reveal to the nation this fresh catastrophe. The sensible will describe it as a regrettable incident; the foolish will declare it to be a sign that Heaven is against your house. That will be the opportunity your enemies want, and they will be sure to make capital out of it."
"And when we have recovered that which we are seeking? What then?"
"Then his body can be laid to its rest, and what has been placed in the vault in the meantime can be removed."
"Very well," I answered. "I suppose it must be so. And who is to carry out the search?"
"There is one man who most certainly must go," von Marquart replied, "since he is the only person who is familiar with the features of the man you saw at Zaarfburg; our friend here must undertake the mission." Then, turning to Bertram, he continued: "You understand, sir, I presume, the difficulty of the task we are setting you? Believe me, it will be no light one. Nor will the responsibility be lighter. You will have to proceed with the utmost circumspection. His Majesty's honour, and the honour of the country, will be in your hands. I do not doubt your integrity, but I should like to be also assured of your discretion."
"I will answer for Mr. Bertram," I said. Then, turning to him, I continued: "Mr. Bertram, my poor brother trusted you when he was alive; I am sure you will do what you can for him, and for me, now that he is dead."
"Your Majesty may trust me in everything," he returned simply, and with a sincerity that spoke for itself. "I loved him, and would serve him alive or dead."
For a minute we were all silent, then Bertram inquired when he should start.
"The sooner the better," I answered. "I will give you a letter to General Groplau, informing him that you are on personal business for myself, and asking him to give you all the assistance that lies in his power. You may imagine with what eagerness I shall await news from you. And now you had better retire to rest. I will see you before you start."
Bertram accordingly left the room, and when he had gone Strekwitz received his final instructions.
We discussed the arrangements for the funeral for a little longer, and then Strekwitz and von Marquart withdrew, and I was left alone with my gloomy thoughts.
When I retired to rest, I lay awake hour after hour, thinking of Max, and of the vile deed of which his poor body was the innocent victim. Long before it was light I had said good-bye to Bertram, and he had left the city, after which I set myself to wait and hope. Of what transpired during the next three days I scarcely like to think, even now. The grim mockery that was daily taking place in the cathedral, and the knowledge of the still grimmer one that was to follow it, weighed upon my heart like lead. All day long, from my study window, I could see the crowd passing into the building by one door and out by another. I could not but watch it, though the sight irritated me beyond measure. Had it not been for the constant letters of love and sympathy that I received from Ottilie, I believe I could not have borne it as well as I did.
Of the funeral ceremony itself I will say but little. Its grandeur and pomp could not have been excelled. I did my best to bear myself as a man should, but as I looked at the coffin, and thought of what it contained, my feelings well-nigh overcame me. When all was over, I left the cathedral and entered the carriage that awaited me at the foot of the steps. The great square was crowded, till it resembled one vast sea of heads, upon which a gleam of wintry sunshine played as if with a caressing hand. Slowly I drove along to the accompaniment of the respectful salutations of the people, though, wrapt as I was in my own thoughts, I was scarcely conscious of their presence. We were not half-way across the square, however, before my feelings underwent a complete change. Looking from the carriage I saw among the multitude of faces one that stung me to instant action. I could scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes. I looked again, only to become doubly certain that there was no mistake. To the best of my belief, there, looking up at me, was the man we suspected, the individual who had cannoned into Bertram at Zaarfburg, and to search for whom Bertram had returned to the scene of Max's death. A moment later it had disappeared, and I was left wondering what I should do. To stop the procession and to go in search of the man was out of the question, and yet to continue our journey to the palace would be to run the risk of allowing him to escape. Situated as I was, there was nothing for it but to go on and to trust to Providence for the rest. One thing, however, was quite certain. A message must be sent to Bertram telling him to return to Pannonia at once. Drawing Strekwitz aside as soon as we reached the palace, I told him what had happened, and gave him the necessary instructions.
For the remainder of the day the memory of the face I had seen in the crowd haunted me like that of a ghoul. Please God, Bertram would not be too late to catch him after all.
I was well aware that, even should my telegram have the good fortune to catch him at once, Bertram could not reach the capital in less than twenty-four hours. During that time, however, I had not much leisure to think of him; I was kept incessantly busy, bidding my guests farewell, and attending to the various important matters of state, which had perforce been neglected under the stress of the last few days. Busy as I was, however, the face of the man I had seen in the crowd was continually before my eyes. Whenever I went abroad, I scanned the countenances of the people I met, in the hope that I might discover him again. But I was not successful. Look as I would I could find no trace of him. Could I have been mistaken? No! I felt certain I had not. The man's image had printed itself so firmly upon my memory that I could entertain no doubt upon the matter. I was still thinking of this when word was brought to me that my father-in-law elect, the Prince of Lilienhöhe, had reached the palace and desired an audience. On the previous day, that is to say, the day of the funeral, I had only time to salute him. Having received no letter from Ottilie that morning, his presence was the more welcome. I bade them conduct him to my presence.
"You are surprised to see me," he said, as we shook hands. "I have come to acquaint you with the fact that Ottilie is in the city."
"Ottilie here?" I cried, my heart leaping at his words. "When did she arrive?"
"This morning," he answered. "She bids me say that it will give her great pleasure to see you, whenever you can spare the time to come to her. When I left the house she was resting after her journey."
The old city looked brighter now that I knew Ottilie was within its confines. An hour or so later I drove to the Lilienhöhe Palace, where I found her in her boudoir eagerly awaiting my coming. Never had she looked more beautiful than at that moment.
"My poor Paul," she said, as I took her in my arms and kissed her, "you have indeed known great sorrow lately. But, please God, happier times are in store for us."
She spoke of Max, referring to him as a loving and sorrowing sister might have done. Her soft voice and tender words soothed me, and when we walked to the window and looked out upon the great square, I was happier than I had been for many days. The significance of my action did not at first strike me, but presently, when a cheer went up from the street below, and I saw that a crowd had gathered and was watching us, I realised the thought that was in the public mind. Ottilie would have drawn back, but I prevented her.
"Let them see us together," I said, and led her a little nearer the window.
Our action pleased the people below, and cheer after cheer went up. Suddenly, pushing his way through the crowd, I saw the tall figure of Bertram. He had, indeed, returned from Zaarfburg with dispatch. Having learnt my destination at the palace, he had lost no time in following me. On he came, not perhaps as gently as he might have done. Then I saw him stop and look towards his left. A moment later he had turned, and was moving back through the crowd. What could be the matter with him? With straining eyes I watched him pushing and squeezing his way through the throng, then I lost sight of him altogether. Had he seen anything of the man whose whereabouts we were so anxious to discover? I had to wait for an answer to that question.
At last, my impatience quite getting the better of me, I bade Ottilie good-bye, and descended to the courtyard, where my carriage was waiting. Slowly I drove across the yard, and passed out through the great gates. By this time the crowd was so great that it was only with difficulty sufficient space could be cleared for my horses to pass through. Cheer after cheer was given me with the heartiest goodwill. I could see that my being without equerry or escort gave them pleasure. When we turned towards the palace I looked back at the house I had just left, and could see Ottilie's white figure still standing at the window watching me. At the same moment something white was thrown into the carriage. It was a letter without address or writing of any description upon the envelope.
"A petition of some sort," I said to myself, and placed it in my pocket to read at my leisure. As it happened, however, when I reached the palace I found von Marquart there. Important despatches had reached him from the war, and a council meeting was to be called without delay. Though I made inquiries, I could hear nothing of Bertram, save that he had reached there soon after my departure, and had set off for the Lilienhöhe Palace in search of me. It was almost evening by the time he returned, and when he was admitted to my presence there was a look of disappointment upon his face. I praised his diligence in returning so quickly on receipt of my message from Zaarfburg, but this did not make him happy.
"To think that I should have let such a chance slip through my fingers!" he cried angrily.
"To what do you refer?" I inquired.
"I saw Rodriguez in the crowd outside the Prince of Lilienhöhe's gates this morning," he answered. "Unfortunately, however, he also saw me. Only a dozen paces or so separated us, but, try how I would I could not get near him. I searched the crowd through and through, but he had managed to give me the slip. I've been hunting the city for him ever since, but not another sign or trace of him can I discover. What I fear is, that, as he must be aware that I recognised him, he may derive the impression that the game is up, and then they will take to flight. However, with your Majesty's permission, I will go out again to-night and see if I can run across him."
I readily gave that permission, and then bade him go to his room and rest, for the poor fellow looked worn out. He promised to do so, and withdrew. When he had gone I crossed to my writing-table, and sat down before it. The letter which had been thrown into the carriage that morning lay before me.
Scarcely conscious of what I was doing I opened it. On the paper I drew from the envelope were about five lines of writing, which read as follows:
"If it is desired to find that which is lost, hasten to the Buchengasse; enter the fifth house on the right-hand side, and proceed up the stairs to the room on the top floor, overlooking the street, and there will be found that for which you are seeking."
That was all. But the effect it produced upon me I must leave you to imagine. I rang my bell violently.
"Request Herr Bertram to come to me immediately," I said to the servant who appeared in answer to it. Then, when the door had been closed behind the man, I read the message again. Was it a hoax? or was it an attempt to draw us into a trap? Whichever it might be, I was determined to see the matter through. A few minutes later, for he had not had time to retire to rest, Bertram put in an appearance. His quick eye saw that something unusual had happened.
"What is it, your Majesty?" he inquired. "I can see that you have had some news."
"Read that," I said, handing him the letter.
He took it, and did as I commanded.
"Thank God!" I heard him mutter when he had carefully perused the contents of the note.
"What do you think of it?" I inquired. "Can it be true?"
"Let us hope so," he replied. "At any rate, it would be as well for me to go to the house and make certain."
"Yes," I answered; "and I will accompany you. We will start at once."
"Is it wise for your Majesty to come?" Bertram asked anxiously. "If you will entrust the errand to me——"
"It is useless for you to argue," I answered sharply. "My mind is made up, and go with you I must, and will. Prepare yourself, and return here."
Seeing that it would be a waste of time to expostulate further, he departed without another word. Ten minutes or so later we had left the palace by the same door which had witnessed our departure into exile so many years before. Before leaving the palace I had taken the precaution to slip a revolver into my pocket, and, on inquiry, I found that Bertram had done the same. If we were to be the victims of a conspiracy, we should at least be able to render a good account of ourselves. Having crossed the great square, and passed the Lilienhöhe Palace, in the windows of which many lights still showed themselves, we steered for the southern portion of the city, where we had discovered the Buchengasse was situated. It was not a savoury neighbourhood, I had been given to understand, and certainly, when we had left the more fashionable portion of the town behind us, we found ourselves in a quarter where the streets were narrow, and the houses far from prepossessing. Muffled up as we were, it was scarcely likely that anyone would have recognised us, even had the thoroughfares been thronged with pedestrians. As it was, however, they were well-nigh deserted, and for this reason we were able to reach the street, for which we were directing our steps without hindrance.
"This is evidently the one," I said, as we turned into a narrow alley, which was, if anything, darker and more unsavoury than those through which we had hitherto been walking. "Now we have to discover the fifth house on the right-hand side."
We accordingly proceeded down it, counting the houses as we went. They were tall, rambling edifices, and must have ranked amongst the oldest in the city. The upper stories projected far beyond the lower, so that, the street itself being narrow, the roofs were almost within touching distance of each other. One solitary lamp illumined it, but that might as well have been dispensed with, for the wind-tossed jet of flame only served to make the place look even more desolate than before. Number five differed from its fellows in the fact that it was, if possible, dirtier and more uncared for than the remainder of the houses. A faint light shone from one of the upper windows, but the lower portion of the house was in total darkness. Approaching the door, I knocked upon it with my stick. No answer, however, rewarded us. I did so again, with the same result. Once more I knocked; this time with greater success. The first-floor window of the adjoining house was opened, and a man's head appeared.
"What do you want?" said its owner. "This is not the time of night to come banging at peaceable folk's doors."
"We want to gain admittance to this house," I replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Is there anyone in it?"
"Nobody," the man replied. "He who was there went away this afternoon. He left the key with me."
"In that case, I beg you will be good enough to give it to me."
"Not till I know you are the right man," he answered. "The fellow said I was to be sure to only hand it to one person. Have you got the letter he sent you?"
"I have," I hastened to reply, producing the letter from my pocket as I spoke. "Here it is."
When I had passed it up to him he withdrew with it into the room again, to reappear a few moments later with the letter and a key in his hand.
"I suppose it's all right," he said. "At any rate, I'll risk it. Bear in mind, however, that I know nothing of the business that brings you here. I'm only following his instructions."
I took the key and inserted it in the lock. Then we entered the house, and Bertram struck a match and lit a taper he had brought with him. Holding the revolver in my right hand, in case it should be wanted, I passed into the room opening out of the little passage. It was untenanted, save by a mouse, that scuttled away across the floor on seeing us. Finding nothing to reward us there, we passed out into the passage again, and made for the flight of stairs at the further end. The letter had mentioned the top floor, and for this reason our failure to find anything in this room did not disappoint us.