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Title: The Puppet Crown 

Author: Harold MacGrath

Release Date: May, 2002  [Etext #3239]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this file first posted = 02/06/01]

Edition: 10

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THE PUPPET CROWN

by Harold MacGrath




TO THE MEMORY OF THAT GOOD FRIEND
               AND
       COMRADE OF MY YOUTH
            MY FATHER




CONTENTS

     I. THE SCEPTER WHICH WAS A STICK
    II. THE COUP D'ETAT OF COUSIN JOSEF
   III. AN EPISODE TEN YEARS AFTER
    IV. AN ADVENTURE WITH ROYALTY
     V. BEHIND THE PUPPET BOOTH
    VI. MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL
   VII. SOME DIALOGUE, AN SPRAINED ANKLE, AND SOME SOLDIERS
  VIII. THE RED CHATEAU
    IX. NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY
     X. BEING OF LONG RIDES, MAIDS, KISSES AND MESSAGES
    XI. THE DENOUEMENT
   XII. WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS
  XIII. BEING OF COMPLICATIONS NOT RECKONED ON
   XIV. QUI M'AIME, AIME MON CHIEN
    XV. IN WHICH FORTUNE BECOMES CARELESS AND PRODIGAL
   XVI. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE ARCHBISHOP'S PLACE AND AFTER
  XVII. SOME PASSAGES AT ARMS
 XVIII. A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT
   XIX. A CHANCE RIDE IN THE NIGHT
    XX. THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT
   XXI. A COURT FETE AT THE RED CHATEAU
  XXII. IN WHICH MAURICE RECURS TO OFFENBACH
 XXIII. A GAME OF POKER AND THE STAKES
  XXIV. THE PRISONER OF THE RED CHATEAU
   XXV. THE FORTUNES OF WAR
  XXVI. A PAGE FORM TASSO
 XXVII. WORMWOOD AND LEES
XXVIII. INTO THE HANDS OF AUSTRIA
  XXIX. INTO STILL WATERS AND SILENCE




Ah Love! Could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire
  Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mold it nearer to the Heart's desire!

                - Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam




CHAPTER I

THE SCEPTER WHICH WAS A STICK

The king sat in his private garden in the shade of a potted 
orange tree, the leaves of which were splashed with brilliant 
yellow. It was high noon of one of those last warm sighs of 
passing summer which now and then lovingly steal in between the 
chill breaths of September. The velvet hush of the mid-day hour 
had fallen.

There was an endless horizon of turquoise blue, a zenith 
pellucid as glass. The trees stood motionless; not a shadow 
stirred, save that which was cast by the tremulous wings of a 
black and purple butterfly, which, near to his Majesty, fell, 
rose and sank again. From a drove of wild bees, swimming hither 
and thither in quest of the final sweets of the year, came a low 
murmurous hum, such as a man sometimes fancies he hears while 
standing alone in the vast auditorium of a cathedral.

The king, from where he sat, could see the ivy-clad towers of 
the archbishop's palace, where, in and about the narrow windows, 
gray and white doves fluttered and plumed themselves. The garden 
sloped gently downward till it merged into a beautiful lake 
called the Werter See, which, stretching out several miles to 
the west, in the heart of the thick-wooded hills, trembled like 
a thin sheet of silver.

Toward the south, far away, lay the dim, uneven blue line of the 
Thalian Alps, which separated the kingdom that was from the 
duchy that is, and the duke from his desires. More than once the 
king leveled his gaze in that direction, as if to fathom what 
lay behind those lordly rugged hills.

There was in the air the delicate odor of the deciduous leaves 
which, every little while, the king inhaled, his eyes half-
closed and his nostrils distended. Save for these brief moments, 
however, there rested on his countenance an expression of 
disenchantment which came of the knowledge of a part ill-played, 
an expression which described a consciousness of his unfitness 
and inutility, of lethargy and weariness and distaste.

To be weary is the lot of kings, it is a part of their royal 
prerogative; but it is only a great king who can be weary 
gracefully. And Leopold was not a great king; indeed, he was 
many inches short of the ideal; but he was philosophical, and by 
the process of reason he escaped the pitfalls which lurk in the 
path of peevishness.

To know the smallness of the human atom, the limit of desire, 
the existence of other lives as precious as their own, is not 
the philosophy which makes great kings. Philosophy engenders 
pity; and one who possesses that can not ride roughshod over men,
and that is the business of kings.

As for Leopold, he would rather have wandered the byways of Kant 
than studied royal etiquette. A crown had been thrust on his 
head and a scepter into his hand, and, willy-nilly, he must wear 
the one and wield the other. The confederation had determined 
the matter shortly before the Franco-Prussian war.

The kingdom that was, an admixture of old France and newer 
Austria, was a gateway which opened the road to the Orient, and 
a gateman must be placed there who would be obedient to the will 
of the great travelers, were they minded to pass that way. That 
is to say, the confederation wanted a puppet, and in Leopold 
they found a dreamer, which served as well. That glittering bait,
a crown, had lured him from his peaceful Osian hills and 
valleys, and now he found that his crown was of straw and his 
scepter a stick.

He longed to turn back, for his heart lay in a tomb close to his 
castle keep, but the way back was closed. He had sold his 
birthright. So he permitted his ministers to rule his kingdom 
how they would, and gave himself up to dreams. He had been but a 
cousin of the late king, whereas the duke of the duchy that is 
had been a brother. But cousin Josef was possessed of red hair 
and a temper which was redder still, and, moreover, a 
superlative will, bending to none, and laughing at those who 
tried to bend him.

He would have been a king to the tip of his fiery hair; and it 
was for this very reason that his subsequent appeals for justice 
and his rights fell on unheeding ears. The confederation feared 
Josef; therefore they dispossessed him. Thus Leopold sat on the 
throne, while his Highness bit his nails and swore, impotent to 
all appearances.

Leopold leaned forward from his seat. In his hand he held a 
riding stick with which he drew shapeless pictures in the yellow 
gravel of the path. His brows were drawn over contemplative eyes,
and the hint of a sour smile lifted the corners of his lips. 
Presently the brows relaxed, and his gaze traveled to the 
opposite side of the path, where the British minister sat in the 
full glare of the sun.

In the middle of the path, as rigid as a block of white marble, 
reposed a young bulldog, his moist black nose quivering under 
the repeated attacks of a persistent insect. It occurred to the 
king that there was a resemblance between the dog and his master,
the Englishman. The same heavy jaws were there, the same 
fearless eyes, the same indomitable courage for the prosecution 
of a purpose.

A momentary regret passed through him that he had not been 
turned from a like mold. Next his gaze shifted to the end of the 
path, where a young Lieutenant stood idly kicking pebbles, his 
cuirass flaming in the dazzling sunshine. Soon the drawing in 
the gravel was resumed.

The British minister made little of the three-score years which 
were closing in on him, after the manner of an army besieging a 
citadel. He was full of animal exuberance, and his eyes, a 
trifle faded, it must be admitted, were still keenly alive and 
observant. He was big of bone, florid of skin, and his hair--
what remained of it--was wiry and bleached. His clothes, 
possibly cut from an old measure, hung loosely about the girth--
a sign that time had taken its tithe. For thirty-five years he 
had served his country by cunning speeches and bursts of fine 
oratory; he had wandered over the globe, lulling suspicions here 
and arousing them there, a prince of the art of diplomacy.

He had not been sent here to watch this kingdom. He was touching 
a deeper undercurrent, which began at St. Petersburg and moved 
toward Central Asia, Turkey and India, sullenly and irresistibly.
And now his task was done, and another was to take his place, 
to be a puppet among puppets. He feared no man save his valet, 
who knew his one weakness, the love of a son on whom he had shut 
his door, which pride forbade him to open. This son had chosen 
the army, when a fine diplomatic career had been planned--a 
small thing, but it sufficed. Even now a word from an humbled 
pride would have reunited father and son, but both refused to 
speak this word.

The diplomat in turn watched the king as he engaged in the 
aimless drawing. His meditation grew retrospective, and his 
thoughts ran back to the days when he first befriended this 
lonely prince, who had come to England to learn the language and 
manners of the chill islanders. He had been handsome enough in 
those days, this Leopold of Osia, gay and eager, possessing an 
indefinable charm which endeared him to women and made him 
respected of men. To have known him then, the wildest stretch of 
fancy would never have placed him on this puppet throne, 
surrounded by enemies, menaced by his adopted people, rudderless 
and ignorant of statecraft.

"Fate is the cup," the diplomat mused, "and the human life the 
ball, and it's toss, toss, toss, till the ball slips and falls 
into eternity." Aloud he said, "Your Majesty seems to be well 
occupied."

"Yes," replied the king, smiling. "I am making crowns and 
scratching them out again-- usurping the gentle pastime of their 
most Christian Majesties, the confederation. A pretty bauble is 
a crown, indeed--at a distance. It is a fine thing to wear one--
in a dream. But to possess one in the real, and to wear it day 
by day with the eternal fear of laying it down and forgetting 
where you put it, or that others plot to steal it, or that you 
wear it dishonestly--Well, well, there are worse things than a 
beggar's crust."

"No one is honest in this world, save the brute," said the 
diplomat, touching the dog with his foot. "Honesty is 
instinctive with him, for he knows no written laws. The gold we 
use is stamped with dishonesty, notwithstanding the beautiful 
mottoes; and so long as we barter and sell for it, just so long 
we remain dishonest. Yes, you wear your crown dishonestly but 
lawfully, which is a nice distinction. But is any crown worn 
honestly? If it is not bought with gold, it is bought with lies 
and blood. Sire, your great fault, if I may speak, is that you 
haven't continued to be dishonest. You should have filled your 
private coffers, but you have not done so, which is a strange 
precedent to establish. You should have increased taxation, but 
you have diminished it; you should have forced your enemy's hand 
four years ago, when you ascended the throne, but you did not; 
and now, for all you know, his hand may be too strong. Poor, 
dishonest king! When you accepted this throne, which belongs to 
another, you fell as far as possible from moral ethics. And now 
you would be honest and be called dull, and dream, while your 
ministers profit and smile behind your back. I beg your 
Majesty's pardon, but you have always requested that I should 
speak plainly."

The king laughed; he enjoyed this frank friend. There was an 
essence of truth and sincerity in all he said that encouraged 
confidence.

"Indeed, I shall be sorry to have you go tomorrow," he said, "for
I believe if you stayed here long enough you would truly make a
king of me. Be frank, my friend, be always frank; for it is only
on the base of frankness that true friendship can rear itself."

"You are only forty-eight," said the Englishman; "you are young."

"Ah, my friend," replied the king with a tinge of sadness, "it 
is not the years that age us; it is how we live them. In the 
last four years I have lived ten. To-day I feel so very old! I 
am weary of being a king. I am weary of being weary, and for 
such there is no remedy. Truly I was not cut from the pattern of 
kings; no, no. I am handier with a book than with a scepter; I'd 
liever be a man than a puppet, and a puppet I am--a figurehead 
on the prow of the ship, but I do not guide it. Who care for me 
save those who have their ends to gain? None, save the archbishop,
who yet dreams of making a king of me. And these are not my people
who surround me; when I die, small care. I shall have left in the
passing scarce a finger mark in the dust of time."

"Ah, Sire, if only you would be cold, unfriendly, avaricious. Be 
stone and rule with a rod of iron. Make the people fear you, 
since they refuse to love you; be stone."

"You can mold lead, but you can not sculpture it; and I am lead."

"Yes; not only the metal, but the verb intransitive. Ah, could 
the fires of ambition light your soul!"

"My soul is a blackened grate of burnt-out fires, of which only 
a coal remains."

And the king turned in his seat and looked across the crisp 
green lawns to the beds of flowers, where, followed by a maid at 
a respectful distance, a slim young girl in white was cutting 
the hardy geraniums, dahlias and seed poppies.

"God knows what her legacy will be!"

"It is for you to make it, Sire."

Both men continued to remark the girl. At length she came toward 
them, her arms laden with flowers. She was at the age of ten, 
with a beautiful, serious face, which some might have called 
prophetic. Her hair was dark, shining like coal and purple, and 
gossamer in its fineness; her skin had the blue-whiteness of 
milk; while from under long black lashes two luminous brown eyes 
looked thoughtfully at the world. She smiled at the king, who 
eyed her fondly, and gave her unengaged hand to the Englishman, 
who kissed it.

"And how is your Royal Highness this fine day? he asked, patting 
the hand before letting it go.

"Will you have a dahlia, Monsieur?" With a grave air she 
selected a flower and slipped it through his button-hole.

"Does your Highness know the language of the flowers?" the 
Englishman asked.

"Dahlias signify dignity and elegance; you are dignified, 
Monsieur, and dignity is elegance."

"Well!" cried the Englishman, smiling with pleasure; "that is 
turned as adroitly as a woman of thirty."

"And am I not to have one?" asked the king, his eyes full of 
paternal love and pride.

"They are for your Majesty's table," she answered.

"Your Majesty!" cried the king in mimic despair. "Was ever a 
father treated thus? Your Majesty! Do you not know, my dear, 
that to me 'father' is the grandest title in the world?"

Suddenly she crossed over and kissed the king on the cheek, and 
he held her to him for a moment.

The bulldog had risen, and was wagging his tail the best he knew 
how. If there was any young woman who could claim his unreserved 
admiration, it was the Princess Alexia. She never talked 
nonsense to him in their rambles together, but treated him as he 
should be treated, as an animal of enlightenment.

"And here is Bull," said the princess, tickling the dog's nose 
with a scarlet geranium.

"Your Highness thinks a deal of Bull?" said the dog's master.

"Yes, Monsieur, he doesn't bark, and he seems to understand all 
I say to him."

The dog looked up at his master as if to say: "There now, what 
do you think of that?"

"To-morrow I am going away," said the diplomat, "and as I can 
not very well take Bull with me, I give him to you."

The girl's eyes sparkled. "Thank you, Monsieur, shall I take him 
now?"

"No, but when I leave your father. You see, he was sent to me by 
my son who is in India. I wish to keep him near me as long as 
possible. My son, your Highness, was a bad fellow. He ran away 
and joined the army against my wishes, and somehow we have never 
got together again. Still, I've a sneaking regard for him, and I 
believe he hasn't lost all his filial devotion. Bull is, in a 
way, a connecting link."

The king turned again to the gravel pictures. These Englishmen 
were beyond him in the matter of analysis. Her Royal Highness 
smiled vaguely, and wondered what this son was like. Once more 
she smiled, then moved away toward the palace. The dog, seeing 
that she did not beckon, lay down again. An interval of silence 
followed her departure. The thought of the Englishman had 
traveled to India, the thought of the king to Osia, where the 
girl's mother slept. The former was first to rouse.

"Well, Sire, let us come to the business at hand, the subject of 
my last informal audience. It is true, then, that the consols 
for the loan of five millions of crowns are issued to-day, or 
have been, since the morning is passed?"

"Yes, it is true. I am well pleased. Jacobi and Brother have 
agreed to place them at face value. I intend to lay out a park 
for the public at the foot of the lake. That will demolish two 
millions and a half. The remainder is to be used in city 
improvements and the reconstruction of the apartments in the 
palace, which are too small. If only you knew what a pleasure 
this affords me! I wish to make my good city of Bleiberg a thing 
of beauty --parks, fountains, broad and well paved streets."

"The Diet was unanimous in regard to this loan?"

"In fact they suggested it, and I was much in favor."

"You have many friends there, then?"

"Friends?" The king's face grew puzzled, and its animation faded 
away. "None that I know. This is positively the first time we 
ever agreed about anything."

"And did not that strike you as rather singular?"

"Why, no."

"Of course, the people are enthusiastic, considering the old 
rate of taxation will be renewed?" The diplomat reached over and 
pulled the dog's ears.

"So far as I can see," answered the king, who could make nothing 
of this interrogatory.

"Which, if your Majesty will pardon me, is not very far beyond 
your books."

"I have ministers."

"Who can see farther than your Majesty has any idea."

"Come, come, my friend," cried the king good-naturedly; "but a 
moment gone you were chiding me because I did nothing. I may not 
fill my coffers as you suggested, but I shall please my eye, 
which is something. Come; you have something to tell me."

"Will your Majesty listen?"

"I promise."

"And to hear?"

"I promise not only to listen, but to hear," laughing; "not only 
to hear, but to think. Is that sufficient?"

"For three years," began the Englishman, "I have been England's 
representative here. As a representative I could not meddle with 
your affairs, though it was possible to observe them. To-day I 
am an unfettered agent of self, and with your permission I shall 
talk to you as I have never talked before and never shall again."

The diplomat rose from his seat and walked up and down the path, 
his hands clasped behind his back, his chin in his collar. The 
bulldog yawned, stretched himself, and followed his master, 
soberly and thoughtfully. After a while the Englishman returned 
to his chair and sat down. The dog gravely imitated him. He 
understood, perhaps better than the king, his master's mood. 
This pacing backward and forward was always the forerunner of 
something of great importance.

During the past year he had been the repository of many a secret.
Well, he knew how to keep one. Did not he carry a secret which 
his master would have given much to know? Some one in far away 
India, after putting him into the ship steward's care, had 
whispered: "You tell the governor that I think just as much of 
him as ever." He had made a desperate effort to tell it the 
moment he was liberated from the box, but he had not yet 
mastered that particular language which characterized his 
master's race.

"To begin with," said the diplomat, "what would your Majesty say 
if I should ask permission to purchase the entire loan?"




CHAPTER II


THE COUP D'ETAT OF COUSIN JOSEF

The king, who had been leaning forward, fell back heavily in his 
seat, his eyes full wide and his mouth agape. Then, to express 
his utter bewilderment, he raised his hands above his head and 
limply dropped them.

"Five millions of crowns?" he gasped.

"Yes; what would your Majesty say to such a proposition?" 
complacently.

"I should say," answered the king, with a nervous laugh, "that 
my friend had lost his senses, completely and totally."

"The fact is," the Englishman declared, "they were never keener 
nor more lucid than at this present moment."

"But five millions!"

"Five millions; a bagatelle," smiling.

"Certainly you can not be serious, and if you were, it is out of 
the question. Death of my life! The kingdom would be at my ears. 
The people would shout that I was selling out to the English, 
that I was putting them into the mill to grind for English sacks."

"Your Majesty will recollect that the measure authorizing this 
loan was rather a peculiar one. Five millions were to be 
borrowed indiscriminately, of any man or body of men willing to 
advance the money on the securities offered. First come, first 
served, was not written, but it was implied. It was this which 
roused my curiosity, or cupidity, if you will."

"I can not recollect that the bill was as you say," said the 
king, frowning.

"I believe you. When the bill came to you, you were not expected 
to recollect anything but the royal signature. Have you read 
half of what you have signed and made law? No. I am serious. 
What is it to you or to the people, who secures this public 
mortgage, so long as the money is forthcoming? I desire to 
purchase at face value the twenty certificates."

"As a representative of England?"

The diplomat smiled. The king's political ignorance was well 
known. "As a representative of England, Sire, I could not 
purchase the stubs from which these certificates are cut. And 
then, as I remarked, I am an unfettered agent of self. The 
interest at two per cent. will be a fine income on a lump of 
stagnant money. Even in my own country, where millionaires are 
so numerous as to be termed common, I am considered a rich man. 
My personal property, aside from my estates, is five times the 
amount of the loan. A mere bagatelle, if I may use that 
pleasantry."

"Impossible, impossible!" cried the king, starting to his feet, 
while a line of worry ran across his forehead. He strode about 
impatiently slapping his boots with the riding stick. "It is 
impossible."

"Why do you say impossible, Sire?"

"I can not permit you to put in jeopardy a quarter of a million 
pounds," forgetting for the moment that he was powerless.

"Aha!" the diplomat cried briskly. "There is, then, beneath your 
weariness and philosophy, a fear?"

"A fear?" With an effort the king smoothed the line from his 
forehead. "Why should there be fear?"

"Why indeed, when our cousin Josef--" He stopped and looked 
toward the mountains.

"Well?" abruptly.

"I was thinking what a fine coup de maitre it would be for his 
Highness to gather in all these pretty slips of parchment given 
under the hand of Leopold."

"Small matter if he should. I should pay him." The king sat down.
"And it is news to me that Josef can get together five millions."

"He has friends, rich and powerful friends."

"No matter, I should pay him."

"Are you quite sure?"

"What do you mean?"

"The face of the world changes in the course of ten years. Will 
there be five millions in your treasury ten years hence?"

"The wealth of my kingdom is not to be questioned," proudly, 
"nor its resources."

"But in ten years, with the ministers you have?" The Englishman 
shrugged doubtfully. "Why have you not formed a new cabinet of 
younger men? Why have you retained those of your predecessor, 
who are your natural enemies? You have tried and failed."

The expression of weariness returned to the king's face. He knew 
that all this was but a preamble to something of deeper 
significance. He anticipated what was forming in the other's 
mind, but he wished to avoid a verbal declaration. O, he knew 
that there was a net of intrigue enmeshing him, but it was so 
very fine that he could not pick up the smallest thread whereby 
to unravel it. Down in his soul he felt the shame of the 
knowledge that he dared not. A dreamer, rushing toward the 
precipice, would rather fall dreaming than waken and struggle 
futilely.

"My friend," he said, finally, sighing, "proceed. I am all 
attention."

"I never doubted your Majesty's perspicacity. You do not know, 
but you suspect, what I am about to disclose to you. My hope is 
that, when I am done, your Majesty will throw Kant and the rest 
of your philosophers out of the window. The people are sullen at 
the mention of your name, while they cheer another. There is an 
astonishing looseness about your revenues. The reds and the 
socialists plot for revolution and a republic, which is a thin 
disguise for a certain restoration. Your cousin the duke visits 
you publicly twice each year. He has been in the city a week at 
a time incognito, yet your minister of police seems to know 
nothing." The speaker ceased, and fondled the dahlia in his 
button-hole.

The king, noting the action, construed it as the subtle old 
diplomat intended he should. "Yes, yes! I am a king only for her 
sake. Go on. Tell me all."

"The archbishop and the chancellor are the only friends you 
possess. The Marshal, from personal considerations merely, 
remains neutral. Your army, excepting the cuirassiers, are 
traitors to your house. The wisest thing you have done was to 
surround yourself with this mercenary body, whom you call the 
royal cuirassiers, only, instead of three hundred, you should 
have two thousand. Self-interest will make them true to you. You 
might find some means to pay them, for they would be a good 
buffer between you and your enemies. The president of the Diet 
and the members are passing bills which will eventually 
undermine you. How long it will take I can not say. But this 
last folly, the loan, which you could have got on without, caps 
the climax. The duke was in the city last week unknown to you. 
Your minister of finance is his intimate. This loan was a 
connivance of them all. Why ten years, when it could easily be 
liquidated in five? I shall tell you. The duke expects to force 
you into bankruptcy within that time, and when the creditor 
demands and you can not pay, you will be driven from here in 
disgrace.

"And where will you go? Certainly not to Osia, since you traded 
it for this throne. It was understood, when you assumed the 
reign, that the finances of the kingdom would remain 
unimpeachable. Bankrupt, the confederation will be forced to 
disavow you. They will be compelled to restore the throne to 
your enemy, who, believe me, is most anxious to become your 
creditor.

"This is an independent state,--conditionally. "The 
confederation have formed themselves into a protectorate. Why? I 
can only guess. One or more of them covet these beautiful lands. 
What are ten years to Josef, when a crown is the goal? Your 
revenues are slowly to decline, there will be internal troubles 
to eat up what money you have in the treasury. O, it is a plot 
so fine, so swiftly conceived, so cunningly devised that I would 
I were twenty years younger, to fight it with you! But I am old. 
My days for acting are past. I can only advise. He was sure of 
his quarry, this Josef whose hair is of many colors. Had you 
applied to the money syndicates of Europe, the banks of England, 
France, Germany, or Austria, your true sponsor, the result would 
always be the same: your ruin. Covertly I warned you not to sign;
you laughed and signed. A trap was there, your own hand opened 
it. How they must have laughed at you! If you attempt to 
repudiate your signature the Diet has power to overrule you.

"Truly, the shade of Macchiavelli masks in the garb of your 
cousin. I admire the man's genius. This is his throne by right 
of inheritance. I do not blame him. Only, I wish to save you. If 
you were alone, why, I do not say that I should trouble myself, 
for you yourself would not be troubled. But I have grown to love 
that child of yours. It is all for her. Do you now understand 
why I make the request? It appears Quixotic? Not at all. Put my 
money in jeopardy? Not while the kingdom exists. If you can not 
pay back, your kingdom will. Perhaps you ask what is the 
difference, whether I or the duke becomes your creditor? This: 
in ten years I shall be happy to renew the loan. In ten years, 
if I am gone, there will be my son. You wonder why I do this. I 
repeat it is for your daughter. And perhaps," with a dry smile, 
"it is because I have no love for Josef."

"I will defeat him!" cried the king, a fire at last shining in 
his eyes.

"You will not."

"I will appeal to the confederation and inform them of the plot."

"The resource of a child! They would laugh at you for your pains.
For they are too proud of their prowess in statecraft to 
tolerate a suspicion that your cousin is a cleverer man than all 
of them put together. There remains only one thing for you to do."

"And what is that?" wearily.

"Accept my friendship at its true value."

The king made no reply. He set his elbows on the arms of the 
rustic seat, interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on them, 
while his booted legs slid out before him. His meditation 
lengthened into several minutes. The diplomat evinced no sign of 
impatience.

"Come with me," said the king, rising quickly. "I will no longer 
dream. I will act. Come."

The diplomat nodded approvingly; and together they marched 
toward the palace. The bulldog trotted on behind, his pink 
tongue lolling out of his black mouth, a white tusk or two 
gleaming on each side. The Lieutenant of the cuirassiers saluted 
as they passed him, and, when they had gone some distance, swung 
in behind. He observed with some concern that his Majesty was 
much agitated.

The business of the kingdom, save that performed in the Diet, 
was accomplished in the east wing of the palace; the king's 
apartments, aside from the state rooms, occupied the west wing. 
It was to the business section that the king conducted the 
diplomat. In the chamber of finance its minister was found busy 
at his desk. He glanced up casually, but gave an ejaculation of 
surprise when he perceived who his visitors were.

"O, your Majesty!" he cried, bobbing up and running out his 
chair. "Good afternoon, your Excellency," to the Englishman, 
adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, through which his eyes shone 
pale and cold.

The diplomat bowed. The little man reminded him of M. Thiers, 
that effervescence of soda tinctured with the bitterness of iron.
He understood the distrust which Count von Wallenstein 
entertained for him, but he was not distrustful of the count. 
Distrust implies uncertainty, and the Englishman was not the 
least uncertain as to his conception of this gentleman of 
finance.

There were few men whom the count could not interpret; one stood 
before him. He could not comprehend why England had sent so 
astute a diplomat and politician to a third-rate kingdom. Of 
that which we can not understand we are suspicious, and the 
guilty are distrustful. Neither the minister of police nor his 
subordinates could fathom the purpose of this calm, dignified 
old man with the difficult English name.

"Count," began the king, pleasantly, "his Excellency here has 
made a peculiar request."

"And what might that be, Sire?"

"He offers to purchase the entire number of certificates issued 
to-day for our loan."

"Five millions of crowns?"  The minister's astonishment was so 
genuine that in jerking back his head his glasses slipped from 
his nose and dangled on the string.

The Englishman bowed again, the wrinkle of a smile on his face.

"I would not believe him serious at first, count," said the king,
laughing easily, "but he assured me that he is. What can be 
done about it?"

"O, your Majesty," cried the minister, excitedly, "it would not 
be politic. And then the measure--"

"Is it possible that I have misconstrued its import?" the 
diplomat interposed with a fine air of surprise.

"You are familiar--" began the count, hesitatingly.

"Perfectly; that is, I believe so."

"But England--"

"Has nothing whatever to do with the matter. Something greater, 
which goes by the name of self-interest."

"Ah," said the count, his wrinkles relaxing; "then it is on your 
own responsibility?"

"Precisely."

"But five millions of crowns--two hundred and fifty thousand 
pounds!"  The minister could not compose himself. "This is a 
vast sum of money. We expected not an individual, but a 
syndicate, to accept our securities, to become debtors to the 
various banks on the continent. But a personal affair! Five 
millions of crowns!  The possibilities of your wealth overwhelm 
me."

The Englishman smiled. "I dare say I have more than my share of 
this world's goods. I can give you a check for the amount on the 
bank of England."

"Your Majesty's lamented predecessor--"

"Is dead," said the king gently. He had no desire to hear the 
minister recount that ruler's virtues. "Peace to his ashes."

"Five millions of crowns!"  The minister had lost his equipoise 
in the face of the Englishman's great riches, of which hitherto 
he had held some doubts. Suddenly a vivid thought entered his 
confused brain. The paper cutter in his hand trembled. In the 
breathing space allowed him he began to calculate rapidly. The 
king and the diplomat had been in the garden; something had 
passed between them. What?  The paper cutter slowly ceased its 
uneven movements. The count calmly placed it behind the inkwells.
. . . . The Englishman knew. The glitter of gold gave way to 
the thought of the peril. A chasm yawned at his feet. But he was 
an old soldier in the game of words and cross-purposes.

"We should be happy to accord you the privilege of becoming the 
kingdom's creditor," he said, smiling at the diplomat, whom 
nothing had escaped. "I am afraid, however, that your request 
has been submitted too late. At ten o'clock this morning the 
transfer of the certificates would have been a simple matter. 
There are twenty in all; it may not be too late to secure some 
of them." He looked tranquilly from the Englishman to the king.

The smiling mask fell from the king's face; he felt that he was 
lost. He tried to catch his friend's eye, but the diplomat was 
deeply interested in the console of the fireplace.

"They seem to be at a premium," the Englishman said, "which 
speaks well for the prosperity of the country. I am sorry to 
have troubled you."

"It would have been a pleasure indeed," replied the count. He 
stood secure within his fortress, so secure that he would have 
liked to laugh.

"It is too bad," said the king, pulling his thoughts together.

"Your Majesty is giving the matter too much importance," said 
the diplomat. "It was merely a whim. I shall have the pleasure 
and honor of presenting my successor this evening."

The count bent low, while the king nodded absently. He was 
thinking that a penful of ink, carelessly trailed over a sheet 
of paper, had lost him his throne. He was about to draw the arm 
of the diplomat through his own, when his step was arrested by 
the entrance of a messenger who presented a letter to the 
minister of finance.

"With your Majesty's permission," he said, tearing open the 
envelope. As he read the contents, his shoulders sank to their 
habitual stoop and benignity once more shone in the place of 
alertness. "Decidedly, fate is not with your Excellency to-day. 
M. Jacobi writes me that four millions have already been 
disposed of to M. Everard & Co., English bankers in the 
Konigstrasse, who are representing a French firm in this 
particular instance. I am very sorry."

"It is of no moment now," replied the Englishman indifferently.

The adverb which concluded this declaration caught the keen ear 
of the minister, who grew tall again. What would he not have 
given to read the subtle brain of his opponent, for opponent he 
knew him to be! His intense scrutiny was blocked by a pair of 
most innocent eyes.

"Well," said the king impatiently, "let us be gone, my friend. 
The talk of money always leaves a copperish taste on my tongue."

Arm in arm they passed from the chamber. When the door closed 
behind them, the minister of finance drew his handkerchief 
across his brow.

"Everard & Co.," mused the Englishman aloud. "Was it not indeed 
a stroke for your cousin to select them as his agents? You will 
in truth be accused of selling out to the English. But there is 
a coincidence in all this."

"I am lost!" said the king.

"On the contrary, you are saved. Everard & Co. are my bankers 
and attorneys; in fact, I own an interest in the firm."

"What is this you tell me?" cried the king.

"Sire, we English have a peculiar trait; it is asking for 
something after we have taken it. The human countenance is a 
fine picture book. I should like to read that belonging to your 
cousin Josef, providing I could read unobserved."

"My friend!" said the king.

"Say nothing. Here is the bulldog; take him to her Royal 
Highness with my compliments. There is no truer friend than an 
animal of his breed. He is steadfast in his love, for he makes 
but few friends; he is a good companion, for he is 
undemonstrative; he can read and draw inferences, and your 
enemies will be his. I shall bid you good afternoon. God be with 
your Majesty."

"Ah, to lose you now!" said, the king, a heaviness in his heart 
such as presentiment brings.

The diplomat turned and went down the grand corridor. The 
bulldog tugged at his chain. Animals are gifted with prescience. 
He knew that his master had passed forever out of his life. 
Presently he heard the voice of the princess calling; and the 
glamour of royalty encompassed him,--something a human finds 
hard to resist, and he was only a dog.

Meanwhile another messenger had entered the chamber of finance 
and had gone. On the minister's desk lay a crumpled sheet of 
paper on which was written:

"Treason and treachery! It has at this moment been ascertained 
that, while pretending to be our agents in securing the consols, 
M. Everard & Co. now refuse to deliver them into the custody of 
Baron von Rumpf, as agreed, and further, that M. Everard & Co. 
are bankers and attorneys to his Excellency the British minister.
He must not leave this city with those consols."

With his eyes riveted on these words, the minister of finance, 
huddled in his chair, had fallen into a profound study.

There were terrible times in the house of Josef that night.




CHAPTER III


AN EPISODE TEN YEARS AFTER

One fine September morning in a year the date of which is of no 
particular importance, a man stepped out of a second-class 
carriage on to the canopied platform of the railway terminus in 
the ancient and picturesque city of Bleiberg. He yawned, shook 
himself, and stretched his arms and legs, relieved to find that 
the tedious journey from Vienna had not cramped those appendages 
beyond recovery.

He stood some inches above the average height, and was built up 
in a manner that suggested the handiwork of a British drill-
master, his figure being both muscular and symmetrical. Besides, 
there was on his skin that rich brown shadow which is the result 
only of the forces of the sun and wind, a life in the open air. 
This color gave peculiar emphasis to the yellow hair and 
mustache. His face was not handsome, if one accept the Greek 
profile as a model of manly beauty, but it was cleanly and 
boldly cut, healthful, strong and purposeful, based on 
determined jaws and a chin which would have been obstinate but 
for the presence of a kindly mouth.

A guard deposited at his feet a new hatbox, a battered traveling 
bag and two gun cases which also gave evidence of rough usage. 
The luggage was literally covered with mutilated square and 
oblong slips of paper of many colors, on which were printed the 
advertisements of far-sighted hotel keepers all the way from 
Bombay to London and half-way back across the continent.

There was nothing to be seen, however, indicative of the 
traveler's name. He surveyed his surroundings with lively 
interest shining in his gray eyes, one of which peered through a 
monocle encircled by a thin rim of tortoise shell. He watched 
the fussy customs officials, who, by some strange mischance, 
overlooked his belongings. Finally he made an impatient gesture.

"Find me a cab," he said to the attentive guard, who, with an 
eye to the main chance, had waved off the approach of a station 
porter. "If the inspectors are in no hurry, I am."

"At once, my lord;" and the guard, as he stooped and lifted the 
luggage, did not see the start which this appellation caused the 
stranger to make, but who, after a moment, was convinced that 
the guard had given him the title merely out of politeness. The 
guard placed the traps inside of one of the many vehicles 
stationed at the street exit of the terminus. He was an 
intelligent and deductive servant.

The traveler was some noted English lord who had come to 
Bleiberg to shoot the famed golden pheasant, and had secured a 
second-class compartment in order to demonstrate his incognito. 
Persons who traveled second-class usually did so to save money; 
yet this tall Englishman, since the train departed from Vienna, 
had almost doubled in gratuities the sum paid for his ticket. 
The guard stood respectfully at the door of the cab, doffed his 
cap, into which a memento was dropped, and went along about his 
business.

The Englishman slammed the door, the jehu cracked his whip, and 
a moment later the hoarse breathings of the motionless engines 
became lost in the sharper noises of the city carts. The unknown 
leaned against the faded cushions, curled his mustache, and 
smiled as if well satisfied with events. It is quite certain 
that his sense of ease and security would have been somewhat 
disturbed had he known that another cab was close on the track 
of his, and that its occupant, an officer of the city 
gendarmerie, alternately smiled and frowned as one does who 
floats between conviction and uncertainty. At length the two 
vehicles turned into the Konigstrasse, the principal 
thoroughfare of the capital, and here the Englishman's cab came 
to a stand. The jehu climbed down and opened the door.

"Did Herr say the Continental?" he asked.

"No; the Grand."

The driver shrugged, remounted his box, and drove on. The Grand 
Hotel was clean enough and respectable, but that was all that 
could be said in its favor. He wondered if the Englishman would 
haggle over the fare. Englishmen generally did. He was agreeably 
disappointed, however, when, on arriving at the mean hostelry, 
his passenger plunged a hand into a pocket and produced three 
Franz-Josef florins.

"You may have these," he said, "for the trouble of having them 
exchanged into crowns."

As he whipped up, the philosophical cabman mused that these 
tourists were beyond the pale of his understanding. With a 
pocket full of money, and to put up at the Grand! Why not the 
Continental, which lay close to the Werter See, the palaces, the 
royal and public gardens? It was at the Continental that the 
fine ladies and gentlemen from Vienna, and Innsbruck, and Munich,
and Belgrade, resided during the autumn months. But the Grand--
ach! it was in the heart of the shops and markets, and within a 
stone's throw of that gloomy pile of granite designated in the 
various guide books as the University of Bleiberg.

The Englishman had some difficulty in finding a pen that would 
write, and the ink was oily, and the guest-book was not at the 
proper angle. At last he managed to form the letters of his name,
which was John Hamilton. After some deliberation, he followed 
this with "England." The proprietor, who acted as his own clerk, 
drew the book toward him, and after some time, deciphered the 
cabalistic signs.

"Ah, Herr John Hamilton of England; is that right?"

"Yes; I am here for a few days' shooting. Can you find me a man 
to act as guide?"

"This very morning, Herr."

"Thanks."

Then he proceeded up the stairs to the room assigned to him. The 
smell of garlic which pervaded the air caused him to make a 
grimace. Once alone in the room, he looked about. There was 
neither soap nor towel, but there was a card which stated that 
the same could be purchased at the office. He laughed. A pitcher 
of water and a bowl stood on a small table, which, by the 
presence of a mirror (that could not in truth reflect anything 
but light and darkness), served as a dresser. These he used to 
good advantage, drying his face and hands on the white 
counterpane of the bed, and laughing quietly as he did so. Next 
he lit a pipe, whose capacity for tobacco was rather less than 
that of a lady's thimble, sat in a chair by the window, smoked 
quietly, and gazed down on the busy street.

It was yet early in the morning; sellers of vegetables, men and 
women peasants, with bare legs and wooden shoes, driving shaggy 
Servian ponies attached to low, cumbersome carts, passed and 
repassed, to and from the markets. A gendarme, leaning the 
weight of his shoulder on the guard of a police saber, rested 
against the corner of a wine shop across the way. Students, 
wearing squat caps with vizors, sauntered indolently along, 
twirling canes and ogling all who wore petticoats. Occasionally 
the bright uniform of a royal cuirassier flashed by; and the 
Englishman would lean over the sill and gaze after him, nodding 
his head in approval whenever the cuirassier sat his horse well.

In the meantime the gendarme, who followed him from the station, 
had entered the hotel, hastily glanced at the freshly written 
name, and made off toward the palace.

"Well, here we are," mused the Englishman, pressing his thumb 
into the bowl of his pipe. "The affair promises some excitement. 
To-morrow will be the sixth; on the twentieth it will be a 
closed incident, as the diplomats would say. I don't know what 
brought me here so far ahead of time. I suppose I must look out 
for a crack on the head from some one I don't know, but who 
knows me so deuced well that he has hunted me in India and 
England, first with fine bribes, then with threats." He glanced 
over his shoulder in the direction of the gun cases. "It was a 
capital idea, otherwise a certain ubiquitous customs official, 
who lies in wait for the unwary at the frontier, would now be an 
inmate of a hospital. To have lived thirty-five years, and to 
have ground out thirteen of them in her Majesty's, is to have 
acquired a certain disdain for danger, even when it is masked. I 
am curious to see how far these threats will go. It will take a 
clever man to trap me. The incognito is a fort. By the way, I 
wonder how the inspectors at the station came to overlook my 
traps? Strange, considering what I have gone through."

At this moment the knuckles of a hand beat against the door.

"Come in!" answered the Englishman, wheeling his chair, but 
making no effort to rise. "Come in!"

The door swung in, and there entered a short, spectacled man in 
dark gray clothes which fairly bristled with brass buttons. He 
was the chief inspector of customs. He bowed.

The Englishman, consternation widening his eyes, lowered his 
pipe.

"Monsieur Hamilton's pardon," the inspector began, speaking in 
French, "but with your permission I shall inspect your luggage 
and glance at your passports." He bowed again.

"Now do you know, mon ami," replied the Englishman, "that 
Monsieur Hamilton will not permit you to gaze even into yonder 
washbowl?" He rose lazily.

"But, Monsieur," cried the astonished official, to whom non-
complaisance in the matter of inspection was unprecedented, "you 
certainly will not put any obstacle in the path of my duty!"

"Your duty, Monsieur the Spectacles, is to inspect at the 
station. There your assistants refused to award me their 
attention. You are trespassing."

"Monsieur forgets," sternly; "it is the law. Is it possible that 
I shall be forced to call in the gendarmes to assist me? This is 
extraordinary!"

"I dare say it is, on your part," admitted the Englishman, 
polishing the bowl of his pipe against the side of his nose. 
"You had best go at once. If you do not, I shall take you by the 
nape of your Bleibergian neck and kick you down the stairs. I 
have every assurance of my privileges. The law here, unless it 
has changed within the past hour, requires inspection at the 
frontier, and at the capital; but your jurisdiction does not 
extend beyond the stations. Bon jour, Monsieur the Spectacles; 
bon jour!"

"O, Monsieur!"

"Good day!"

"Monsieur, it is my duty; I must!"

"Good day! How will you go, by the stairs or by the window? I--
but wait!" an idea coming to him which caused him to reflect on 
the possible outcome of violence done to a government official, 
who, perhaps, was discharging his peculiar duty at the orders of 
superiors. He walked swiftly to the door and slid the bolt, to 
the terror of the inspector, on whose brow drops of perspiration 
began to gather. "Now," opening the hat box and taking out a 
silk hat, "this is a hat, purchased in Paris at Cook's. There is 
nothing in the lining but felt. Look into the box; nothing. Take 
out your book and follow me closely," he continued, dividing the 
traveling bag into halves, and he began to enumerate the 
contents.

"But, Monsieur!" remonstrated the inspector, who did not enjoy 
this infringement of his prerogatives; his was the part to 
overhaul. "This is--"

"Be still and follow me," and the Englishman went on with the 
inventory. "There!" when he had done, "not a dutiable thing 
except this German-Scotch whisky, and that is so bad that I give 
it to you rather than pay duty. What next? My passports? Here 
they are, absolutely flawless, vised by the authorities in 
Vienna."

The slips crackled in the fluttering fingers of the inspector. 
"They are as you say, Monsieur," he said, returning the permits. 
Then he added timidly, "And the gun cases?"

"The gun cases!" The pipe spilled its coal to the floor. "The 
gun cases!"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And why do you wish to look into them?" with agitation.

"Smugglers sometimes fill them with cigars."

"Ah!" The Englishman selected two loaded shells, drew a gun from 
the case, threw up the breech and rammed in the shells. Then he 
extended the weapon to within an inch of the terrified 
inspector's nose. "Now, Monsieur the Spectacles, look in there 
and tell me what you see."

The fellow sank half-fainting into a chair. "Mon Dieu, Monsieur, 
would you kill me who have a family?"

"What's a customs inspector, more or less?" asked the terrible 
islander, laughing. "I advise you not to ask me to let you look 
into the other gun, out of consideration for your family. It has 
hair triggers, and my fingers tremble."

"Monsieur, Monsieur, you do wrong to trifle with the law. I 
shall be obliged to report you. You will be arrested."

"Nothing of the kind," was the retort. "I have only to inform 
the British minister how remiss you were in your obligations. I 
should go free, whereas you would be discharged. But what I 
demand to know is, what the devil is the meaning of this farce."

"I am simply obeying orders," answered the inspector, wiping his 
forehead. "It is not a farce, as Monsieur will find." Then, as 
if to excuse this implied threat: "Will Monsieur please point 
the gun the other way?"

The Englishman unloaded the gun and tossed it on the bed.

"Thanks. In coming here I simply obeyed the orders of the 
minister of police."

"And what in the world did you expect to find?"

"We are looking--that is, they are looking--O, Monsieur, it is 
impossible for me to disclose to you my government's purposes."

"What and whom were you expecting?" demanded the Englishman. 
"You shall not leave this room till you have fully explained 
this remarkable intrusion."

"We were expecting the Lord and Baronet Fitzgerald."

"The lord!" laughing. "Does the lord visit Bleiberg often, then, 
that you prepare this sort of a reception? And the Baronet 
Fitzgerald?"

"They are the same and the one person."

"And who the deuce is he; a spy, a smuggler, a villain, or what?"

"As to that, Monsieur," with a wonder why this man laughed, "I 
know no more than you. But I do know that for the past month 
every Englishman has been subjected to this surveillance, and 
has submitted with more grace than you," with an oblique glance.

"What! Examined his luggage at the hotel?"

"Yes, Monsieur. It is the order of the minister of police. I 
know not why." The natural color was returning to his cheeks.

"This is a fine country, I must say. At least the king should 
acquaint his visitors with the true cause of this treatment." In 
his turn the Englishman resorted to oblique glances.

"The king?" The inspector raised a shoulder and spread his hands.
"The king is a paralytic, Monsieur, and has little to say these days."

"A paralytic? I thought he was called `the handsome monarch'?"

"That was years ago, Monsieur. For three years he has been 
helpless and bedridden. The archbishop is the real king nowadays.
But he meddles not with the police."

"This is very sad. I suppose it would be impossible for 
strangers to see him now."

"An audience?" a sparkle behind the spectacles. "Is your 
business with the king, Monsieur?"

"My business is mine," shortly. "I am only a tourist, and should 
have liked to see the king from mere curiosity. However, had you 
explained all this to me, I should not have caused you so many 
gray hairs."

"Monsieur did not give me the chance," simply.

"True," the Englishman replied soberly. He began to think that 
he had been over hasty in asserting his privileges. "But all 
this has nothing to do with me. My name is John Hamilton. See, 
it is engraved on the stock of the gun," catching it up and 
holding it under the spectacled eyes, which still observed it 
with some trepidation. "That is the name in my passports, in the 
book down stairs, in the lining of my hat. I am sorry, since you 
were only obeying orders, that my rough play has caused you 
alarm." He unbolted the door. "Good morning."

The inspector left the room as swiftly as his short legs could 
carry him, ignoring the ethics of common politeness. As he 
stumbled down the stairs he cursed the minister of police for 
requiring this spy work of him, and not informing him why it was 
done. Ah, these cursed Anglais from Angleterre! They were all 
alike, and this one was the worst he had ever encountered. And 
those ugly black orifices in the gun! Peste! He would resign! 
Yes, certainly he would resign.

As to the Englishman, he stood in the center of the room and 
scratched his head. "Hang it, I've made an ass of myself. That 
blockhead will have the gendarmes about my ears. If they arrest 
me there will be the devil to pay. The Lord and the Baronet 
Fitzgerald!" he repeated. He sat down on the edge of the bed, 
and fell to laughing again. "Confound these picture-book 
kingdoms! They always take themselves so seriously. Well, if the 
gendarmes call this afternoon I'll not be at home. No, thank you.
I shall be hunting pheasants."

And thereat he set to work cleaning the gun which had all but 
prostrated the inspector. Soon the room smelled of oiled rags 
and tobacco. Some-times the worker whistled softly. Sometimes he 
let the gun fall against his knee, and stared dreamily through 
the window at the flight of the ragged clouds. Again, he would 
shake his head, as if there were something which he failed to 
understand. Half an hour passed, when again some one knocked on 
the door.

"Come in!" Under his breath he added: "The gendarmes, likely."

But it was only the proprietor of the hotel. "Asking Herr's 
pardon," he said, "for this intrusion, but I have secured a man 
for you. I have the honor to recommend Johann Kopf as a good 
guide and hunter."

"Send him up. If he pleases me, I'll use him."

The proprietor withdrew.

Johann Kopf proved to be a young German with a round, ruddy face,
which was so innocent of guile as to be out of harmony with the 
shrewd, piercing black eyes looking out of it. The Englishman 
eyed him inquisitively, even suspiciously.

"Are you a good hunter?" he asked.

"There is none better hereabout," answered Johann, twirling his 
cap with noticeably white fingers. It was only in after days 
that the Englishman appreciated the full significance of this 
answer.

"Speak English?"

"No. Herr's German is excellent, however."

"Humph!" The Englishman gave a final glance into the shining 
tubes of the gun, snapped the breach, and slipped it into the 
case. "You'll do. Return to the office; I'll be down presently."

"Will Herr hunt this morning?"

"No; what I wish this morning is to see the city of Bleiberg."

"That is simple," said Johann. The fleeting, imperceptible smile 
did not convict his eyes of false keenness.

He bowed out. When the door closed the Englishman waited until 
the sound of retreating steps failed. Then he took the gun case 
which he had not yet opened, and thrust it under the mattress of 
the bed.

"Johann," he said, as he put on a soft hat and drew a cane from 
the straps of the traveling bag, "you will certainly precede me 
in our hunting expeditions. I do not like your eyes; they are 
not at home in your boyish face. Humph! what a country. Every 
one speaks a different tongue."

The city of Bleiberg lay on a hill and in the valleys which fell 
away to the east and west. It was divided into two towns, the 
upper and the lower. The upper town and that part which lay on 
the shores of the Werter See was the modern and fashionable 
district. It was here that the king and the archbishop had their 
palaces and the wealthy their brick and stone. The public park 
skirted the lake, and was patterned after those fine gardens 
which add so much to the picturesqueness of Vienna and Berlin. 
There were wide gravel paths and long avenues of lofty chestnuts 
and lindens, iron benches, fountains and winding flower beds. 
The park, the palaces, and the Continental Hotel enclosed a 
public square, paved with asphalt, called the Hohenstaufenplatz, 
in the center of which rose a large marble fountain of several 
streams, guarded by huge bronze wolves. Here, too, were iron 
benches which were, for the most part, the meeting-place of the 
nursemaids. Carriages were allowed to make the circuit, but not 
to obstruct the way.

The Konigstrasse began at the Platz, divided the city, and wound 
away southward, merging into the highway which continued to the 
Thalian Alps, some thirty miles distant. The palaces were at the 
southeast corner of the Platz, first the king's, then the 
archbishop's. The private gardens of each ran into the lake. 
Directly across from the palaces stood the cathedral, a relic of 
five centuries gone. On the northwest corner stood the 
Continental Hotel, with terrace and parapet at the water's edge, 
and a delightful open-air cafe facing the Platz. September and 
October were prosperous months in Bleiberg. Fashionable people 
who desired quiet made Bleiberg an objective point. The 
pheasants were plump, there were boars, gray wolves, and not 
infrequently Monsieur Fourpaws of the shaggy coat wandered 
across from the Carpathians.

As to the lower town, it was given over to the shops and markets,
the barracks, the university, and the Rathhaus, which served as 
the house of the Diet. It was full of narrow streets and quaint 
dwellings.

Up the Konigstrasse the guide led the Englishman, who nodded 
whenever the voluble chatter of the German pleased him. When 
they began the descent of the hill, the vista which opened 
before them drew from the Englishman an ejaculation of delight. 
There lay the lake, like a bright new coin in a green purse; the 
light of the sun broke on the white buildings and flashed from 
the windows; and the lawns twinkled like emeralds.

"It makes Vienna look to her laurels, eh, Herr?" said Johann.

"But it must have cost a pretty penny."

"Aye, that it did; and the king is being impressed with that 
fact every day. There are few such fine palaces outside of first-
class kingdoms. The cathedral there was erected at the desire of 
a pope, born five hundred years ago. It is full of romance. 
There is to be a grand wedding there on the twentieth of this 
month. That is why there are so many fashionable people at the 
hotels. The crown prince of Carnavia, which is the large kingdom 
just east of us, is to wed the Princess Alexia, the daughter of 
the king."

"On the twentieth? That is strange."

"Strange?"

"), I meant nothing," said the Englishman, jerking back his 
shoulders; "I had in mind another affair."

There was a flash in Johann's eyes, but he subdued it before the 
Englishman was aware of its presence. "However," said Johann, 
"there is something strange. The prince was to have arrived a week
ago to complete the final arrangements for the wedding. His suite
has been here a week, but no sign of his Highness. He stopped
over a train at Ehrenstein to visit for a few hours a friend of
the king, his father. Since then nothing has been heard from him.
The king, it is said, fears that some accident has happened to him.
Carnavia is also disturbed over this disappearance. Some whisper
of a beautiful peasant girl. Who can say?"

"Any political significance in this marriage?"

"Leopold expects to strengthen his throne by the alliance. But--"
Johann's mouth closed and his tongue pushed out his cheek. 
"There will be some fine doings in the good city of Bleiberg 
before the month is gone. The minister from the duchy has been 
given his passports. Every one concedes that trouble is likely 
to ensue. Baron von Rumpf--"

"Baron von Rumpf," repeated the Englishman thoughtfully.

"Yes; he is not a man to submit to accusations without making a 
disagreeable defense."

"What does the duke say?"

"The duke?"

"Yes."

"His Highness has been dead these four years."

"Dead four years? So much for man and his futile dreams. Dead 
four years," absently.

"What did you say, Herr?"

"I? Nothing. How did he die?"

"He was thrown from his horse and killed. But the duchess lives, 
and she is worthy of her sire. Eh, Herr, there is a woman for 
you! She should sit on this throne; it is hers by right. These 
Osians are aliens and were forced on us."

"It seems to me, young man, that you are talking treason."

"That is my business, Herr." Johann laughed. "I am a socialist, 
and occasionally harangue for the reds. And sometimes, when I am 
in need of money, I find myself in the employ of the police."

The muscles of the Englishman's jaws hardened, then they relaxed.
The expression on the face of his guide was free from anything 
but bonhomie.

"One must live," Johann added deprecatingly.

"Yes, one must live," replied the Englishman.

"O! but I could sell some fine secrets to the Osians had they 
money to pay. Ach! but what is the use? The king has no money; 
he is on the verge of bankruptcy, and this pretty bit of scenery 
is the cause of it."

"So you are a socialist?" said the Englishman, passing over 
Johann's declamatory confidences.

"Yes, Herr. All men are brothers."

"Go to!" laughed the Englishman, "you aren't even a second 
cousin to me. But stay, what place is this we are passing?" 
indicating with his cane a red-brick mansion which was fronted 
by broad English lawns and protected from intrusion by a high 
iron fence.


"That is the British legation, Herr."

The Englishman stopped and stared, unconscious of the close 
scrutiny of the guide. His eyes traveled up the wide flags 
leading to the veranda, and he drew a picture of a square-
shouldered old man tramping backward and forward, the wind 
tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his back, his 
chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog. Rapidly 
another picture came. It was an English scene. And the echo of a 
voice fell on his ears. "My way and the freedom of the house and 
the key to the purse; your way and a closed door while I live. 
You can go, but you can not come back. You have decided? Yes? 
Then good morning." Thirteen years, thirteen years! He had 
sacrificed the freedom of the house and the key to the purse, 
the kind eyes and the warm pressure of that old hand. And for 
what? Starvation in the deserts, plenty of scars and little of 
thanks, ingratitude and forgetfulness.

And now the kind eyes were closed and the warm hand cold. O, to 
recall the vanished face, the silent voice, the misspent years, 
the April days and their illusions! The Englishman took the 
monocle from his eye and looked at it, wondering what had caused 
the sudden blur.

"There was a fine old man there in the bygone days," said Johann.

"And who was he?"

"Lord Fitzgerald, the British minister. He and Leopold were 
close friends." Johann's investigating gaze went unrewarded. The 
Englishman's face had resumed its expression of mild curiosity.

"Ah; a compatriot of mine," he said. Inwardly he mused: "This 
guide is watching me; let him catch me if he can. His duchess? I 
know far too much of her!"

"He was a millionaire, too," went on Johann.

"Well, we can't all be rich. Come."

They crossed the Strasse and traversed the walk at the side of 
the palace enclosures. The Englishman aimlessly trailed his cane 
along the green pickets of the fence till they ended in a stone 
arch which rose high over the driveway. The gates were open, and 
coming toward the two wanderers as they stood at the curb rolled 
the royal barouche, on each side of which rode a mounted 
cuirassier, sashed and helmeted. The Englishman, however, had 
observed nothing; he was lost in some dream.

"Look, Herr!" cried Johann, rousing the other by a pull at the 
sleeve. "Look!" Socialist though he claimed to be, Johann 
touched his cap.

In the barouche, leaning back among the black velvet cushions, 
her face mellowed by the shade of a small parasol, was a young 
woman of nineteen or twenty, as beautiful as a da Vinci freshly 
conceived. The Englishman saw a pair of grave dark eyes which, 
in the passing, met his and held them. He caught his breath.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"That is her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Alexia."

Afterward the Englishman remembered seeing a white dog lying on 
the opposite seat.




CHAPTER IV


AN ADVENTURE WITH ROYALTY

Maurice Carewe, attached to the American legation in Vienna, 
leaned against the stone parapet which separated the terraced 
promenade of the Continental Hotel from the Werter See, and 
wondered what had induced him to come to Bleiberg.

He had left behind him the glory of September in Vienna, a city 
second only to Paris in fashion and gaiety; Vienna, with its 
inimitable bands, its incomparable gardens, its military 
maneuvers, its salons, its charming women; and all for a fool's 
errand. His Excellency was to blame. He had casually dropped the 
remark that the duchy's minister, Baron von Rumpf, had been 
given his passports as a persona non grata by the chancellor of 
the kingdom, and that a declaration of war was likely to follow. 
Maurice's dormant love of journalistic inquiry had become 
aroused, and he had asked permission to investigate the affair, 
a favor readily granted to him.

But here he was, on the scene, and nobody knew anything, and 
nobody could tell anything. The duchess had remained silent. Not 
unnaturally he wished himself back in Vienna. There were no 
court fetes in the city of Bleiberg. The king's condition was 
too grave to permit them. And, besides, there had been no real 
court in Bleiberg for the space of ten years, so he was told. 
Those solemn affairs of the archbishop's, given once the week 
for the benefit of the corps diplomatique, were dull and 
spiritless. Her Royal Highness was seldom seen, save when she 
drove through the streets. Persons who remembered the reign 
before told what a mad, gay court it had been. Now it was 
funereal. The youth and beauty of Bleiberg held a court of its 
own. Royalty was not included, nor did it ask to be.

A strange capital, indeed, Maurice reflected, as he gazed down 
into the cool, brown water. He regretted his caprice. There were 
pretty women in Vienna. Some of them belonged to the American 
colony. They danced well, they sang and played and rode. He had 
taught some of them how to fence, and he could not remember the 
times he had been "buttoned" while paying too much attention to 
their lips and eyes. For Maurice loved a thing of beauty, were 
it a woman, a horse or a Mediterranean sunset. What a difference 
between these two years in Vienna and that year in Calcutta! He 
never would forget the dingy office, with its tarnished sign, "U.
S. Consul," tacked insecurely on the door, and the utter 
loneliness.

He cast a pebble into the lake, and watched the ripples roll 
away and disappear, and ruminated on a life full of color and 
vicissitude. He remembered the Arizona days, the endless burning 
sand, the dull routine of a cavalry trooper, the lithe brown 
bodies of the Apaches, the first skirmish and the last. From a 
soldier he had turned journalist, tramped the streets of 
Washington in rain and shine, living as a man lived who must.

One day his star had shot up from the nadir of obscurity, not 
very far, but enough to bring his versatility under the notice 
of the discerning Secretary of State, who, having been a friend 
of the father, offered the son a berth in the diplomatic corps. 
A consulate in a South American republic, during a revolutionary 
crisis, where he had shown consummate skill in avoiding 
political complications (and where, by a shrewd speculation in 
gold, he had feathered his nest for his declining years), proved 
that the continual incertitude of a journalistic career is a 
fine basis for diplomatic work. From South America he had gone 
to Calcutta, thence to Austria.

He was only twenty-nine, which age in some is youth. He 
possessed an old man's wisdom and a boy's exuberance of spirits. 
He laughed whenever he could; to him life was a panorama of 
vivid pictures, the world a vast theater to which somehow he had 
gained admission. His beardless countenance had deceived more 
than one finished diplomat, for it was difficult to believe that 
behind it lay an earnest purpose and a daring courage. If he 
bragged a little, quizzed graybeards, sought strange places, 
sported with convention, and eluded women, it was due to his 
restlessness. Yet, he had the secretiveness of sand; he absorbed,
but he revealed nothing. He knew his friends; they thought they 
knew him. It was his delight to have women think him a butterfly,
men write him down a fool; it covered up his real desires and 
left him free.

What cynicism he had was mellowed by a fanciful humor. Whether 
with steel or with words, he was a master of fence; and if at 
times some one got under his guard, that some one knew it not. 
To let your enemy see that he has hit you is to give him 
confidence. He saw humor where no one else saw it, and tragedy 
where it was not suspected. He was one of those rare individuals 
who, when the opportunity of chance refuses to come, makes one.

"Germany and Austria are great countries," he mused, lighting a 
cigar. "Every hundredth man is a king, one in fifty is a duke, 
every tenth man is a prince, and one can not take a corner 
without bumping into a count or a baron. Even the hotel waiters 
are disquieting; there is that embarrassing atmosphere about 
them which suggests nobility in durance vile. As for me, I 
prefer Kentucky, where every man is a colonel, and you never 
make a mistake. And these kingdoms!" He indulged in subdued 
laughter. "They are always like comic operas. I find myself 
looking around every moment for the merry villagers so happy and 
so gay (at fifteen dollars the week), the eternal innkeeper and 
the perennial soubrette his daughter, the low comedian and the 
self-conscious tenor. Heigho! and not a soul in Bleiberg knows 
me, nor cares.

"I'd rather talk five minutes to a pretty woman than eat stuffed 
pheasants the year around, and the stuffed pheasant is about all 
Bleiberg can boast of. Well, here goes for a voyage of discovery;"
and he passed down the stone steps to the pier, quite unconscious
of the admiring glances of the women who fluttered back and forth
on the wide balconies above.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon; a fresh wind redolent of 
pine and resin blew across the lake. Maurice climbed into a boat 
and pulled away with a strong, swift stroke, enjoying the 
liberation of his muscles. A quarter of a mile out he let the 
oars drift and took his bearings. He saw the private gardens of 
the king and the archbishop, and, convinced that a closer view 
would afford him entertainment, he caught up the oars again and 
moved inland.

The royal gardens ran directly into the water, while those of 
the archbishop were protected by a wall of brick five or six 
feet in height, in the center of which was a gate opening on the 
water. Behind the gate was a small boat dock. Maurice plied the 
oars vigorously. He skirted the royal gardens, and the smell of 
newly mown lawns filled the air. Soon he was gliding along the 
sides of the moss-grown walls. A bird chirped in the overhanging 
boughs. He was about to cast loose the oars again, when the boat 
was brought to a violent stop. A few yards waterward from the 
gate there lay, hidden in the shadowed water, a sunken pier. On 
one of the iron piles the boat had become impaled.

Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began 
rapidly to fill. First he swore, then he laughed, for he was 
possessed of infinite good humor. The only thing left for him to 
do was to swim for the gate. With a rueful glance at his thin 
clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and 
struck out toward the gate. The water, having its source from 
the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to grasp the 
lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point 
of climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his 
streaming eyes.

Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She 
held in her hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was 
scanning the unwritten pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, 
large and wistful, were holding communion with the god of dreams.
A wisp of hair, glossy as coal, trembled against a cheek white 
as the gown she wore.

At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a 
bulldog, toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in 
a zig-zag course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his 
head as if he, too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him. 
All at once he sniffed, his ears stood forward, and a low growl 
broke the enchantment. The girl, on discovering Maurice, closed 
the book and rose. The dog, still growling, jumped down and 
trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that it was time to speak.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has 
met with an accident."

The girl came to the gate. "Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you 
are wet!"

"That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock 
together. "I was forced to swim. If you will kindly open the 
gate and guide me to the street, I shall be much obliged to you."

The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, 
or the next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.

"Thank you," he said.

"O! And you might have been drowned," compassion lighting her 
beautiful eyes. "Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must 
be weak. And it was that sunken pier? I shall speak to 
Monseigneur; he must have it removed. Bull, stop growling; you 
are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress."

Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the 
desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this 
girl who could say "must" to the formidable prelate? His quick 
eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarrassment. Indeed, 
she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty 
disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it seemed to him, as 
she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be 
standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when 
he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. 
Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy 
petals. Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose 
tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep. Presently a 
color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks. 
Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own 
cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.

"Pardon my rudeness," he said.

"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.

"It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg 
for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with 
an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.

"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to 
imprint it on her memory. "You are English?"

He said: "No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have 
possibly read about."

Her teeth gleamed. "Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not 
appear so very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at 
your best. What is this--this Yankeeland like?"

"It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such 
a great country."

"You are a patriot!" clapping her hands. "No other country is so 
fine and large and great as your own. But tell me, is it as 
large as Austria?"

"Austria? You will not be offended if I tell you?"

"No."

"Well," with fun in his eyes, "it is my opinion that I could 
hide Austria in my country so thoroughly that nobody would ever 
be able to find it again." He wondered how she would accept this 
statement.

She lifted her chin and laughed, and the bulldog wagged his tail,
as he always did when mirth touched her. He jumped up beside 
Maurice and looked into his face. Maurice patted his broad head, 
and he submitted. The girl looked rather surprised.

"Are you a magician?" she asked.

"Why?"

"Bull never makes friends."

"But I do," said Maurice; "perhaps he understands that, and 
comes half-way. But it is rather strange to see a bulldog in 
this part of the country."

"He was given to me, years ago, by an Englishman."

"That accounts for it." He was experiencing a deal of cold, but 
he dared not mention it. "And may I ask your name?"

"Ah, Monsieur," shyly, "to tell you my name would be to frighten 
you away."

"I am sure nothing could do that," he declared earnestly. Had he 
been thinking of aught but her eyes he might have caught the 
significance of her words. But, then, the cold was numbing.

She surveyed him with critical eyes. She saw a clean-shaven face,
brown, handsome and eager, merry blue eyes, a chin firm and 
aggressive, a mischievous mouth, a forehead which showed the man 
of thought, a slim athletic form which showed the man of action--
all of which combined to produce that indescribable air which 
attaches itself to the gentleman.

"It is Alexia," she said, after some hesitation, watching him 
closely to observe the effect.

But he was as far away as ever. "Alexia what?"

"Only Alexia," a faint coquetry stealing into her glance.

"O, then you are probably a maid?"

"Y--es. But you are disappointed?"

"No, indeed. You have put me more at ease. I suppose you serve 
the princess?"

"Whenever I can," demurely.

He could not keep his eyes from hers. "They say that she is a 
very lonely princess."

"So lonely." And the coquetry faded from her eyes as her glance 
wandered waterward and became fixed on some object invisible and 
far away. "Poor lonely princess!"

Maurice was growing colder and colder, but he did not mind. He 
had wished for some woman to talk to; his wish had been granted. 
"I feel sorry for her, if what they say is true," having no 
other words.

"And what do they say, Monsieur?"

"That she and her father have been socially ostracized. I should 
be proud to be her friend." Once the words were gone from him, 
he saw their silliness. "A presumptuous statement," he added; "I 
am an obscure foreigner."

"Friendship, Monsieur, is a thing we all should prize, all the 
more so when it is disinterested."

He said rapidly, for fear she might hear his teeth chatter: 
"They say she is very beautiful. Tell me what she is like."

"I am no judge of what men call beauty. As to her character, I 
believe I may recommend that. She is good."

He was sure that merriment twitched the corners of her lips, and 
he grew thoughtful. "Alexia. Is that not her Highness's name 
also?"

"Yes, Monsieur; we have the same names." Her eyes fell, and she 
began to finger the pages of the book.

"I am rested now," he said, with a sudden distrust. "I thank you."

"Come, then, and I will show you the way to the gate."

"I am sorry to have troubled you," he said.

She did not reply, and together they walked up the path. The 
plants were dying, and the odor of decay hovered about them. 
Splashes of rich vermilion crowned the treetops, leaves of gold, 
russet and faded green rustled on the ground. The sun was gone 
behind the hills, the lake was tinted with salmon and dun, and 
Maurice (who honestly would have liked to run) was turning 
purple, not from atmospheric effect, but from the partly 
congealed state of his blood. Already he was thinking that his 
adventure had turned out rather well. It was but a simple task 
for a man of his imagination to construct a pretty romance, with 
a kingdom for a background. A maid of honor, perhaps; no matter, 
he would find means for future communication. A glamour had 
fallen upon him.

As to the girl, who had scarce spoken to a dozen young men in 
her life, she was comparing four faces; one of a visionary 
character of which she had dreamed for ten years, and three 
which had recently entered into the small circle of her affairs.
It was little pleasure to her to talk to those bald diplomats, 
who were always saying what they did not mean, and meaning what 
they did not say. And the young officers in the palace never 
presumed to address her unless spoken to.

What a monotonous life it was! She was like a bird in a cage, 
ever longing for freedom, not of the air, but of impulse. To be 
permitted to yield to the impulses of the heart! What a 
delightful thought that was! But she, she seemed apart from all 
which was desirable to youth. Women courtesied to her, men 
touched their hats; but homage was not what she wanted. To be 
free, that was all; to come and go at will; to laugh and to sing.
But ever the specter of royal dignity walked beside her and 
held her captive.

She was to wed a man on whom she looked with indifference, but 
wed him she must; it was written. A toy of ambition, she was 
neither more nor less. Ah, to be as her maids, not royal, but 
free. Of the three new faces one belonged to the man whom she 
was to wed; another was a tall, light-haired man whom she had 
seen from her carriage; the last walked by her side. And somehow,
the visionary face, the faces of the man whom she was to wed 
and the light-haired man suddenly grew indistinct. She glanced 
from the corner of her eyes at Maurice, but meeting his glance, 
in which lay something that caused her uneasiness, her gaze 
dropped to the path.

"I shall be pleased to tell her Highness that a stranger, who 
has not met her, who does not even suspect her rebel spirit, 
desires to be her friend."

"O, Mademoiselle," he cried in alarm, "that desire was expressed 
in confidence."

"I know it. It is for that very reason I wish her to know. Have 
no fear, Monsieur;" and she laughed without mirth. "Her Highness 
will not send you to prison"

Close at hand Maurice discovered a cuirassier, who, on seeing 
them, saluted and stood attention. Maurice was puzzled.

"Lieutenant," said the girl, "Monsieur--Carewe?" turning to 
Maurice.

"Yes, that is the name."

"Well, then, Monsieur Carewe has met with an accident; please 
escort him to the gate. I trust you will not suffer any 
inconvenience from the cold. Good evening, Monsieur Carewe."

She retraced her steps down the path. The bulldog followed. Once 
he looked back at Maurice, and stopped as if undecided, then 
went on. Maurice stared at the figure of the girl unfil it 
vanished behind a clump of rose bushes.

"Well, Monsieur Carewe!" said the Lieutenant, a broad smile 
under his mustache.

"I beg your pardon, Lieutenant. May I ask you who she is?"

"What! You do not know?"

Maurice suddenly saw light. "Her Royal Highness?" blankly.

"Her Royal Highness, God bless her!" cried the Lieutenant 
heartily.

"Amen to that," replied Maurice, his agitation visible even to 
the officer.

They arrived at the gate in silence. The cuirassier raised the 
bar, touched his helmet, and said, with something like an amused 
twinkle in his eyes: "Would Monsieur like to borrow my helmet 
for a space?"

Maurice put up a hand to his water-soaked hair, and gave an 
ejaculation of dismay. He had forgotten all about his hat, which 
was by now, in-all probabilities, at the bottom of the lake.

"Curse the luck!" he said, in English.

"Curse the want of it, I should say!" was the merry rejoinder, 
also in English.

Maurice threw back his head and laughed, and the cuirassier 
caught the infection.

"However, there is some compensation for the hat," said the 
cuirassier, straightening his helmet. "You are the first 
stranger who has spoken to her Highness this many a day. Did the 
dog take to your calves? Well, never mind; he has no teeth. It 
was only day before yesterday that the Marshal swore he'd have 
the dog shot. Poor dog! He is growing blind, too, or he'd never 
have risked his gums on the Marshal, who is all shins. If you 
will wait I will fetch you one of the archbishop's skull caps."

"Don't trouble yourself," laughed Maurice. "What I need is not a 
hat, but a towel, and I'll get that at the hotel. George! I feel 
so like an ass. What is your name, Lieutenant?"

"Von Mitter, Carl von Mitter, at your service. And you are 
Monsieur Carewe."

"Of the American legation in Vienna. Thanks for your trouble."

"None at all. You had better hurry along; your nails are growing 
black."

Maurice passed into the street. "Her Royal Highness!" he 
muttered. "The crown princess, and I never suspected. Her name 
is Alexia, and she serves the princess whenever she can! Maurice,
you are an ass!"

Having arrived at this conclusion, and brushing the dank hair 
from his eyes, he thrust his hands into his oozing pockets, and 
proceeded across the square toward the Continental, wondering if 
there was a rear entrance. Happily the adventure absorbed all 
his thoughts. He was quite unobservant of the marked attention 
bestowed on him. Carriages filled the Strasse, and many persons 
moved along the walks. It was the promenade hour. The water, 
which still dripped from his clothes and trickled from his shoes,
left a conspicuous trail behind; and this alone, without the 
absence of a hat, would have made him the object of amused and 
wondering smiles.

A gendarme stared at him, but seeing that he walked straight, 
said nothing. Maurice, however, was serenely unaware of what was 
passing around him. He did not notice even the tall, broad-
shouldered man who, with a gun under his arm, brushed past him, 
followed by a round-faced German over whose back was slung a 
game-bag. The man with the gun was also oblivious of his 
surroundings. He bumped into several persons, who scowled at him,
but offered no remonstrance after having taken his measure. The 
German put his pipe into his pocket and advanced a step.

"The other gun, Herr," he said, "would have meant the boar."

"So it would, perhaps," was the reply.

"We've done pretty good work these two days," went on the German;
but as the other appeared not to have heard he fell to the rear 
again, a sardonic smile flitting over his oily face.

When Maurice reached the hotel cafe he left an order for a 
cognac to be sent to his room, whither he repaired at once. As 
he got into dry clothes he mused.

"I wonder what sort of a man that crown prince is? Now, if I 
were he, an army could not keep me away from Bleiberg. Either he 
is no judge of beauty, or the peasant girls hereabout are 
something extraordinary. Pshaw! a man always makes an ass of 
himself on his wedding eve; the crown prince is simply starting 
in early. I believe I'll hang on here till the wedding day; a 
royal marriage is one of those things which I have yet to see. I 
have a fortnight or more to knock around in. I should like to 
know what the duchess will eventually do."

He sipped the last drop of the cognac and went down the stairs.




CHAPTER V


BEHIND THE PUPPET BOOTH

While the absent-minded hunter strode down toward the lower town,
and Maurice sipped his cognac, the king lay in his bed in the 
palace and aimlessly fingered the counterpane. There was now no 
beauty in his face. It was furrowed and pale, and an endless 
fever burned in the sunken eyes--eyes like coals, which suddenly 
flare before they turn to ash.

The archbishop nor the chancellor could see anything in the dim 
corners of the royal bed chamber, but he could. It was the 
mocking finger of death, and it was leveled at him. Spring had 
come, and summer and autumn and winter, and spring again, but he 
had not wandered through the green fields, except in dreams, and 
the byways he loved knew him no more. Ah, to sit still like a 
spectator and to see the world pass by! To be a part of it, and 
yet not of it! To see the glory of strength and vigor just 
beyond one's grasp, the staffs to lean on crumble to the touch, 
and the stars of hope fade away one by one from the firmament of 
one's dreams! Here was weariness for which there was no remedy.

Day by day time pressed him on toward the inevitable. No human 
hand could stay him. He could think, but he could not act. He 
could move, but he could not stand nor walk. And that philosophy 
which had in other days sustained him was shattered and 
threadbare. He was dead, yet he lived. Fate has so many delicate 
ironies.

He had tried to make his people love him, only to acquire their 
hate. He had reduced taxation, only to be scorned. He had made 
the city beautiful, only to be cursed. A paralytic, the theme of 
ribald verse, the butt of wineroom wits, the object of contumely 
to his people, his beneficiaries!

The ingratitude of kings bites not half so deep as the 
ingratitude of the people. Tears filled his eyes, and he fumbled 
his lips. There were only two bright spots in his futile life. 
The first was his daughter, who read to him, who was the first 
in the morning to greet him and last at night to leave him. The 
second was the evening hour when the archbishop and the 
chancellor came in to discuss the affairs of state.

"And Prince Frederick has not yet been heard from?" was his 
first inquiry.

"No, Sire," answered the chancellor. "The matter is altogether 
mysterious. The police can find no trace of him. He left 
Carnavia for Bleiberg; he stopped at Ehrenstein, directed his 
suite to proceed; there, all ends. The ambassador from Carnavia 
approached me to-day. He scouts the idea of a peasant girl, and 
hinted at other things."

"Yes," said the king, "there is something behind all this. 
Frederick is not a youth of peccadilloes. Something has happened 
to him. But God send him safe and sound to us, so much depends 
on him. And Alexia?"

"Says nothing," the archbishop answered, "a way with her when 
troubled."

"And my old friend, Lord Fitzgerald?"

The prelate shook his head sadly. "We have just been made 
acquainted with his death. God rest his kindly soul."

The king sank deeper into his pillows.

"But we shall hear from his son within a few days," continued 
the prelate, taking the king's hand in his own. "My son, cease 
to worry. Alexia's future is in good hands. I have confidence 
that the public debt will be liquidated on the twentieth."

"Or renewed," said the chancellor. "Your Majesty must not forget 
that Prince Frederick sacrifices his own private fortune to 
adjust our indebtedness. That is the wedding gift which he 
offers to her Highness. One way or the other, we have nothing to 
fear."


"O!" cried the king, "I had forgotten that magnanimity. His 
disappearance is no longer a mystery. He is dead."

His auditors could not repress the start which this declaration 
caused them to make.

"Sire," said the chancellor, quietly, "princes are not 
assassinated these days. Our worry is perhaps all needless. The 
prince is young, and sometimes youth flings off the bridle and 
runs away. But he loves her Highness, and the Carnavians are not 
fickle."

The prelate and the statesman had different ideas in regard to 
the peasant girl. To the prelate a woman was an unknown quantity,
and he frowned. The statesman, who had once been young, knew a 
deal about woman, and he smiled.

"Sometimes, my friends," said the king, "I can see beyond the 
human glance. I hear the crumbling of walls. But for that lonely 
child I could die in peace. The crown I wear is of lead; God 
hasten the day that lifts it from my brow." When the king spoke 
again, he said: "And that insolent Von Rumpf is gone at last? I 
am easier. He should have been sent about his business ten years 
ago. What does Madame the duchess say?"

"So little," answered the chancellor, "that I begin to distrust 
her silence. But she is a wise woman, though her years are but 
five and twenty, and she will not make any foolish declaration 
of war which would only redound to her chagrin."

"What is the fascination in these crowns of straw?" said the 
king to the prelate. "Ah, my father, you strive for the crown to 
come; and yet your earnest but misguided efforts placed this 
earthly one on my head. You were ambitious for me."

"Nay," and the prelate bent his head. "It was self that spoke, 
worldly aggrandizement. I wished --God forgive me!--to 
administer not to the prince but to the king. I am punished. The 
crown has broken your life. It was the passing glory of the 
world; and I fell."

"And were not my eyes as dazzled by the crown as yours were by 
the robes? Why did we leave the green hills of Osia? What 
destiny writes, fate must unfold. And oh, the dreams I had of 
being great! I am fifty-eight and you are seventy. And look; I 
am a broken twig, and you tower above me like an ancient oak, 
and as strong." To the chancellor he said: "And what is the 
budget?"

"Sire, it is fairly quiet in the lower town. The native troops 
have been paid, and all signs of discontent abated. The duchess 
can do nothing but replace von Rumpf. The Marshal is a straw in 
the wind; von Wallenstein and Mollendorf, I hold a sword above 
their necks. Nearly half the Diet is with us. There has been 
some strange meddling in the customs. Englishmen have brought me 
complaints, through the British legation, regarding such 
inspections as were never before heard of in a country at peace. 
I consulted the chief inspector and he affirmed the matter. He 
was under orders of the minister of police. It appears to me 
that a certain Englishman is to be kept out of the country for 
reasons well known to us. I have suspended police power over the 
customs. Ah, Sire, if you would but agree with Monseigneur to 
dismiss the cabinet."

"It is too late," said the king.

"There is only one flaw," continued the chancellor. "This flaw 
is Colonel Beauvais, chief in command of the cuirassiers, who in 
authority stands between the Marshal and General Kronau. I fear 
him. Why? Instinct. He is too well informed of my projects for 
one thing; he laughs when I suggest in military affairs. Who is 
he? A Frenchman, if one may trust to a name; an Austrian, if one 
may trust from whence he came, recommended by the premier 
himself. He entered the cuirassiers as a Captain. You yourself, 
Sire, made him what he is--the real military adviser of the 
kingdom. But what of his past? No one knows, unless it be von 
Wallenstein, his intimate. I, for one, while I may be wrong, 
trust only those whose past I know, and even then only at 
intervals."

"Colonel Beauvais?" murmured the king. "I am sure that you are 
unjustly suspicious. How many times have I leaned on his stout 
arm! He taught Alexia a thousand tricks of horse, so that to-day 
she rides as no other woman in the kingdom rides. Would that I 
stood half so straight and looked at the world half so 
fearlessly. He is the first soldier in the kingdom."

"All men are honest in your Majesty's eyes," said the archbishop.

"All save the man within me," replied the king.

At this juncture the king's old valet came in with the evening 
meal; and soon after the prelate and the chancellor withdrew 
from the chamber.

"How long will he live?" asked the latter.

"A year; perhaps only till to-morrow. Ah, had he but listened to 
me several years ago, all this would not have come to pass. He 
would see nothing; he persisted in dreams. With the death of 
Josef he was convinced that his enemies had ceased to be. Had he 
listened, I should have dismissed the cabinet, and found enough 
young blood to answer my purposes; I should have surrounded him 
with a mercenary army two thousand strong; by now he should have 
stood strongly entrenched.

"They have robbed him, but you and I were permitted to do 
nothing. Where is the prosperity of which we formerly boasted? I,
too, hear crumbling walls. Yet, the son of this Englishman, 
whose strange freak is still unaccountable, will come at the 
appointed time; I know the race. He will renew the loan for 
another ten years. What a fancy! Lord Fitzgerald was an 
eccentric man. Given a purpose, he pursued it to the end, 
neither love nor friendship, nor fear swerved him. Do you know 
that he made a vow that Duke Josef should never sit on this 
throne, nor his descendants? What were five millions to him, if 
in giving them he realized the end? The king would never explain 
the true cause of this Englishman's folly, but I know that it 
was based on revenge, the cause of which also is a mystery. If 
only the prince were here!"

"He will come; youth will be youth."

"Perhaps."

"You have never been young."

"Not in that particular sense to which you refer," dryly.

*   *   *   *   *   *

In the chamber of finance Colonel Beauvais leaned over the desk 
and perused the writing on a slip of paper which the minister 
had given him. Enough daylight remained to permit the letters to 
stand out legibly. When he had done the Colonel tossed back the 
missive, and the minister tore it into shreds and dropped them 
into the waste basket.

"So much for your pains," said Beauvais. "The spy, who has eaten 
up ten thousand crowns, is not worth his salt. He has watched 
this man Hamilton for two days, been his guide in the hills, and 
yet learns nothing. And the rigor of the customs is a farce."

"This day," replied the minister, "the police lost its 
jurisdiction over the customs. Complaints have been entered at 
the British legation, which forwarded them to the chancellor."

"O ho!" The Colonel pulled his mustache.

"I warned you against this. The chancellor is a man to be 
respected, whatever his beliefs. I warned you and Mollendorf of 
the police what the result would be. The chancellor has a hard 
hand when it falls. He was always bold; now he is more so since 
he practically stands alone. In games of chance one always 
should play close. You are in a hurry."

"I have waited six years."

"And I have waited fourteen."

"Well, then, I shall pass into the active. I shall watch this 
Englishman myself. He is likely to prove the agent. Count, the 
time for waiting is gone. If the debt is liquidated or renewed-- 
and there is Prince Frederick to keep in mind-- we shall have 
played and lost. Disgrace for you; for me--well, perhaps there 
is a power behind me too strong. The chancellor? Pouf! I have no 
fear of him. But you who laugh at the archbishop--"

"He is too old."

"So you say. But he has dreams unknown to us. He has ceased to 
act; why? He is waiting for the curtain to rise. Nothing escapes 
him; he is letting us go to what end we will, only, if we do not 
act at once, to draw us to a sudden halt. Now to this meddling 
Englishman: we have offered him a million--five millions for 
four. He laughs. He is a millionaire. With characteristic 
bombast he declares that money has no charms. For six months, 
since his father's death, we have hounded him, in vain. It is 
something I can not understand. What is Leopold to these 
Englishmen that they risk a princely fortune to secure him his 
throne? Friendship? Bah, there is none."

"Not in France nor in Austria. But this man was an Englishman; 
they leave legacies of friendship."

The Colonel walked to the window and looked down into the 
gardens. He remained there for a time. Von Wallenstein eyed him 
curiously. Presently the soldier returned to his seat.

"We are crossing a chasm; a man stands in our way; as we can not 
go around him, we, being the stronger, push him aside. Eh?"

"You would not kill--" began the minister.

"Let us use the French meaning of the word `suppress.' And why 
not? Ambition, wherever it goes, leaves a trail of blood. What 
is a human life in this game we play? A leaf, a grain of sand."

"But, since the prince promises to liquidate the debt, what 
matters it if the Englishman comes? It is all one and the same."

"Within twenty, nay, within fifteen days, what may not happen?"

"You are ambitious," said von Wallenstein, slyly.

"And who is not?"

"Is a Marshal's baton so much, then, above your present 
position? You are practically the head of the army."

"A valiant army!" laughing; "five thousand men. Why, Madame the 
duchess has six thousand and three batteries."

"Her army of six thousand is an expedient; you can raise 
volunteers to the amount of ten thousand."

"To be sure I could; but supposing I did not want to?"

The minister dropped his gaze and began fingering the paper 
cutter. The Colonel's real purpose was still an enigma to him. 
"Come, you have the confidence of the king, the friendship of 
her Royal Highness. What do you gain in serving us? The baton?"

"You embarrass me. Questions? I should not like to lie to you. 
Batons were fine things when Louises and Napoleons conferred 
them. I have thrown my dice into the common cup; let that be 
sufficient."

"A man who comes from a noble house such as you come from--"

"Ah, count, that was never to be referred to. Be content with my 
brain and sword. And then, there is the old saying, Give a man 
an ell, and look to your rod. We are all either jackals or lions,
puppets or men behind the booth. I am a lion." He rose, drew 
his saber half-way from the scabbard, and sent it slithering 
back. "In a fortnight we put it to the touch to win or lose it 
all, as the poet says. Every man for himself, and let the 
strongest win, say I."

"You are playing two games," coldly.

"And you? Is it for pure love of Madame the duchess that you 
risk your head? Come, as you say; admit that you wish to see my 
hand without showing yours. A baton is not much for me, as you 
have hinted, but it is all that was promised me. And you, if we 
win, will still be minister of finances? What is that maggot I 
see behind your eyes? Is it not spelled `chancellor'? But, 
remember, Madame has friends to take care of in the event of our 
success. We can not have all the spoils. To join the kingdom and 
the duchy will create new offices, to be sure, but we can have 
only part of them. As to games, I shall, out of the kindness in 
my heart, tell you that I am not playing two, but three. Guess 
them if you can. Next to the chancellorship is the embassy to 
Vienna, and an embassy to Paris is to be created. Madame is a 
superior woman. Who knows?" with a smile that caused the other 
to pale.

"You are mad to dream of that."

"As you say, I come of a noble house," carelessly.

"You are mad."

"No, count," the  soldier replied. "I have what Balzac calls a 
thirst for a full life in a short space."

"I would give a deal to read what is going on in that head of 
yours."

"Doubtless. But what is to become of our friends the Marshal and 
Mollendorf? What will be left for them? Perhaps there will be a 
chamber of war, a chamber of the navy. As a naval minister the 
Marshal would be nicely placed. There would be no expense of 
building ships or paying sailors, which would speak well for the 
economy of the new government. The Marshal is old; we shall send 
him to Servia. At least the office will pay both his vanity and 
purse to an extent equal to that of his present office. By the 
way, nothing has yet been heard from Prince Frederick. Ah, these 
young men, these plump peasant girls!"

Both laughed.

"Till this evening, then;" and the Colonel went from the room.

The minister of finance applied a match to the tapers. He held 
the burning match aloft and contemplated the door through which 
the soldier had gone. The sting of the incipient flame aroused 
him.

"What," he mused aloud, as he arranged the papers on his desk, 
"is his third game?"

"It appears to me," said a voice from the wall behind, "that the 
same question arises in both our minds."

The minister wheeled his chair, his mouth and brows puckered in 
dismay. From a secret panel in the wall there stepped forth a 
tall, thin, sour-visaged old man of military presence. He calmly 
sat down in the chair which Beauvais had vacated.

"I had forgotten all about you, Marshal!" exclaimed the count, 
smiling uneasily.

"A statement which I am most ready to believe," replied old 
Marshal Kampf, with a glance which caused the minister yet more 
uneasiness. "What impressed me among other things was, `But what 
is to become of our friends the Marshal and Mollendorf?' I am 
Marshal; I am about to risk all for nothing. Why should I not 
remain Marshal for the remainder of my days? It is a pleasant 
thing to go to Vienna once the year and to witness the maneuvers,
with an honorary position on the emperor's staff. To be Marshal 
here is to hold a sinecure, yet it has its compensations. The 
uniforms, gray and gold, are handsome; it is an ostrich plume 
that I wear in my chapeau de bras; the medals are of gold. My 
friend, it is the vanity of old age which forgives not." And the 
Marshal, the bitterest tongue in all Bleiberg, reached over and 
picked up the cigar which lay by the inkwells. He lit it at one 
of the tapers, and sank again into the chair. "Count, how many 
games are you playing?"

"My dear Marshal, it was not I who spoke of games. I am playing 
no game, save for the legitimate sovereign of this kingdom. I 
ask for no reward."

"Disinterested man! The inference is, however, that, since you 
have not asked for anything, you have been promised something. 
Confess it, and have done."

"Marshal!"

"Well?"

"Is it possible that you suspect me?" The cold eyes grew colder, 
and the thin lips almost disappeared.

"When three men watch each other as do Beauvais, Mollendorf and 
you, it is because each suspects the other of treachery. You 
haven't watched me because I am old, but because I am old I have 
been watching you. Mollendorf aspires to greatness, you have 
your gaze on the chancellorship, and curse me if the Colonel 
isn't looking after my old shoes! Am I to give up my uniform, my 
medals and my plume--for nothing? And who the devil is this man 
Beauvais, since that is not his name? Is he a fine bird whose 
feathers have been plucked?"

The minister did not respond to the question; he began instead 
to fidget in his chair.

"When I gave my word to his Highness the duke, it was without 
conditions. I asked no favors; I considered it my duty. Let us 
come to an understanding. Material comfort is necessary to a man 
of my age. Fine phrases and a medal or two more do not count. I 
am, then, to go to Servia. You were very kind to hide me in your 
cabinet."

"It was to show you that I had no secrets from you," quickly.

"Let us pass on. Mollendorf is to go to Paris, where he will be 
a nonentity, while in his present office he is a power in the 
land-- Devil take me, but it seems to me that we are all a pack 
of asses! Our gains will not be commensurate with our losses. 
The navy? Well, we'll let that pass; the Colonel, I see, loves a 
joke."

"You forget our patriotism for the true house."

"Why not give it its true name--self-interest?"

"Marshal, in heaven's name, what has stirred your bile?" The 
minister was losing his patience, a bad thing for him to do in 
the presence of the old warrior.

"It is something I've been swallowing this past year." The 
Marshal tipped the ash of his cigar into the waste basket.

"Marshal, will you take the word not of the minister, but of the 
von Wallenstein, that whatever my reward shall be for my humble 
services, yours shall not be less?"

"Thanks, but I have asked for no reward. If I accepted gain for 
what I do, I should not be too old to blush."

"I do not understand."

"Self-interest blinds us. I have nothing but pity for this king 
whose only crime is an archbishop; and I can not accept gain at 
his expense; I should blush for shame. Had I my way, he should 
die in peace. He has not long to live. The archbishop--well, we 
can not make kings, they are born. But there is one thing more: 
Over all your schemes is the shadow of Austria."

"Austria?"

"Yes. The Colonel speaks of a power behind him. Bismarck looks 
hungrily toward Schleswig-Holstein. Austria casts amorous eyes 
at us. A protectorate?  We did not need it. It was forced on us. 
When Austria assumed to dictate to us as to who should be king, 
she also robbed us of our true independence. Twenty years ago 
there was no duchy; it was all one kingdom. Who created this 
duchy when Albrecht came on the throne? Austria. Why?  If we 
live we shall read."  He rose, shook his lean legs. "I have been 
for the most part neutral. I shall remain neutral. There is an 
undercurrent on which you have failed to reckon. Austria, 
mistress of the confederation. There are two men whom you must 
watch. One is the archbishop."

"The archbishop?" The minister was surprised that the Marshal 
should concur with the Colonel. "And the other?"

"Your friend the Colonel," starting for the door.

The minister smiled. "Will you not dine with me?" he asked.

"Thanks. But I have the Servian minister on my hands to-night. A 
propos, tell the Colonel that I decline Belgrade. I prefer to 
die at home." And he vanished.

Von Wallenstein reviewed the statements of both his visitors.

"I shall watch Monseigneur the archbishop." Then he added, with 
a half-smile: "God save us if the Marshal's sword were half so 
sharp as his tongue!  It was careless of me to forget that I had 
shut him up in the cabinet."

Meanwhile Beauvais walked slowly toward his quarters, with his 
saber caught up under his arm. Once he turned and gazed at the 
palace, whose windows began to flash with light.

"Yes, they are puppets and jackals, and I am the lion. For all 
there shall serve my ends. I shall win, and when I do--" He 
laughed silently. "Well, I am a comely man, and Madame the 
duchess shall be my wife."




CHAPTER VI


MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL

The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who, 
lonely and restless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of 
innocent amusement. He was none the worse for his unintended 
bath; indeed, if anything, he was much the better for it. His 
imagination was excited. It was not every day that a man could, 
at one and the same time, fall out of a boat and into the 
presence of a princess of royal blood.

He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two 
utterances recurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration 
like the bouquet of old wine. He had told her that she was 
beautiful, indirectly, it was true; she had accepted his 
friendship, also indirectly, it was true. Now the logical 
sequence of all this was--but he broke into a light laugh. What 
little vanity he possessed was without conceit. Princesses of 
royal blood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and 
besides, she was to be married on the twentieth of the month.

He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion. It was a 
charming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope 
of gowns and uniforms. Beautiful faces flashed past him. There 
were in the air the vague essences of violet, rose and 
heliotrope. Sometimes he caught the echo of low laughter or the 
snatch of a gay song. The light of the lamps shot out on the 
crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of quivering flame, 
which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and afar 
twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which rested 
partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.

The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and 
Maurice yielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned 
over the pavilion rail, and out of the blackness below he 
endeavored to conjure up the face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who 
had danced with him at the embassies in Vienna, fenced and 
ridden with him, till--till-- with a gesture of impatience he 
flung away the end of his cigar.

Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate 
he saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the 
Princess Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose 
lips were as red as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice 
was sweeter than that throbbing up from the 'cello. If he 
thought much more of her, there would be a logical sequence on 
his side. He laughed again--with an effort--and settled back in 
his chair to renew his interest in the panorama revolving around 
him.

"They certainly know how to live in these countries," he thought,
"for all their comic operas. All I need, to have this fairy 
scene made complete, is a woman to talk to. By George, what's to 
hinder me from finding one?" he added, seized by the spirit of 
mischief. He turned his head this way and that. "Ah! doubtless 
there is the one I'm looking for."

Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray. 
Her back was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful 
contours of her figure. She wore a gray alpine hat, below the 
rim of which rebellious little curls escaped, curls of a fine 
red-brown, which, as they trailed to the nape of the firm white 
neck, lightened into a ruddy gold. Her delicate head was turned 
aside, and to all appearances her gaze was directed to the 
entrance to the pavilion. A heavy blue veil completely obscured 
her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear and the 
shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much. To a 
man there is always a mystery lurking behind a veil. So he rose, 
walked past her, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair 
opposite to hers. The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd 
did not disturb him.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said, politely lifting his hat.

She straightened haughtily. "Monsieur," she said, resentment, 
consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her 
tones, "I did not give you permission to sit down. You are 
impertinent!"

"O, no," Maurice declared. "I am not impertinent. I am lonesome. 
In all Bleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel 
waiters, and they are uninteresting. Grant me the privilege of 
conversing with you for a moment. We shall never meet again; and 
I should not know you if we did. Whether you are old or young, 
plain or beautiful, it matters not. My only wish is to talk to a 
woman, to hear a woman's voice"

"Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your 
nurse?" The attitude which accompanied these words was anything 
but assuring.

He, however, evinced no alarm. He even laughed. "That was good! 
We shall get along finely, I am sure."

"Monsieur," she said, rising, "I repeat that I do not desire 
your company, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable 
effrontery."

"I beseech you!" implored Maurice, also rising. "I am a 
foreigner, lonesome, unhappy, thousands of miles from home--"

"You are English?" suddenly. She stood with the knuckle of her 
forefinger on her lips as if meditating. She sat down.

Maurice, greatly surprised, also sat down.

"English?" he repeated. His thought was: "What the deuce! This 
is the third time I have been asked that. Who is this gay 
Lothario the women seem to be expecting?" To her he continued: 
"And why do you ask me that?"

"Perhaps it is your accent. And what do you wish to say to me, 
Monsieur?" It was a voice of quality; all the anger had gone 
from it. She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms, and 
through the veil he caught the sparkle of a pair of wonderful 
eyes. "Let us converse in English," she added. "It is so long 
since I have had occasion to speak in that tongue." She repeated 
her question.

"O, I had no definite plan outlined," he answered; "just 
generalities, with the salt of repartee to season." He pondered 
over this sudden transition from wrath to mildness. An 
Englishman? Very well; it might grow interesting.

"Is it customary among the English to request to speak to 
strangers without the usual formalities of an introduction?"

"I can not say that it is," he answered truthfully enough; "but 
the procedure is never without a certain charm and excitement."

"Ah; then you were led to address me merely by the love of 
adventure?"

"That is it; the love of adventure. I should not have spoken to 
you had you not worn the veil." He remarked that her English was 
excellent.

"You differ from the average Englishman, who is usually wrapt up 
in himself and has no desire to talk to strangers. You have been 
a soldier."

The evolutions of his cane ceased. "How in the world did you 
guess that?" surprised beyond measure.

"Perhaps there is something suggestive in your shoulders."

He tried to peer behind the veil, but in vain. "Am I speaking to 
one I have met before?"

"I believe not; indeed, sir, I am positive."

"I have been a soldier, but my shoulders did not tell you that."

"Perhaps I have the gift of clairvoyance," gazing again toward 
the entrance.

"Or perhaps you have been to Vienna."

"Who knows? Most Englishmen are, or have been, soldiers."

"That is true." Inwardly, "There's my friend the Englishman 
again. She's guessing closer than she knows. Curious; she has 
mistaken me for some one she does not know, if that is possible."
He was somewhat in a haze. "Well, you have remarkable eyes. 
However, let us talk of a more interesting subject; for instance,
yourself. You, too, love adventure, that is, if I interpret the 
veil rightly."

"Yes; I like to see without being seen. But, of course, behind 
this love of adventure which you possess, there is an important 
mission."

"Ah!" he thought; "you are not quite sure of me." Aloud, "Yes, I 
came here to witness the comic opera."

"The comic opera? I do not understand?"

"I believed there was going to be trouble between the duchy and 
the kingdom, but unfortunately the prima donna has refused the 
part."

"The prima donna!" in a muffled voice. "Whom do you mean?"

"Son Altesse la Grande Duchesse! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'" 
And he whistled a bar from Offenbach, his eyes dancing.

"Sir!--I!--you do wrong to laugh at us!" a flash from the half-
hidden eyes.

"Forgive me if I have offended you, but I--"

"Ah, sir, but you who live in a powerful country think we little 
folk have no hearts, that we have no wrongs to redress, no 
dreams of conquest and of power. You are wrong."

"And whose side do you defend?"

"I am a woman," was the equivocal answer.

"Which means that you are uncertain."

"I have long ago made up my mind."

"Wonderful! I always thought a woman's mind was like a time-
table, subject to change without notice. So you have made up 
your mind?"

"I was born with its purpose defined," coldly.

"Ah, now I begin to doubt."

"What?" with a still lower degree of warmth.

"That you are a woman. Only goddesses do not change their minds--
sometimes. Well, then you are on the weaker side."

"Or the stronger, since there are two sides."

"And the stronger?" persistently.

"The side which is not the weaker. But the subject is what you 
English call 'taboo.' It is treading on delicate ground to talk 
politics in the open--especially in Bleiberg."

"What a diplomat you would make!" he cried with enthusiasm. 
Certainly this was a red-letter day in his calendar. This 
adventure almost equalled the other, and, besides, in this 
instance, his skin was dry; he could enjoy it more thoroughly. 
Who could this unknown be? "If only you understood the mystery 
with which you have enshrouded yourself!"

"I do." She drew the veil more firmly about her chin.

"Grant me a favor."

"I am talking to you, sir."

This candor did not disturb him. "The favor I ask is that you 
will lift the corner of your veil; otherwise you will haunt me."

"I am doomed to haunt you, then. If I should lift the corner of 
my veil something terrible would happen."

"What! Are you as beautiful as that?"

There was a flash of teeth behind the veil, followed by the 
ripple of soft laughter. "It is difficult to believe you to be 
English. You are more like one of those absurd Americans."

Maurice did not like the adjective. "I am one of them," 
wondering what the effect of this admission would be. "I am not 
English, but of the brother race. Forgive me if I have imposed 
on you, but it was your fault. You said that I was English, and 
I was too lonesome to enlighten you."

"You are an American?" She began to tap her gloved fingers 
against the table.

"Yes."

Then, to his astonishment, she gave way to laughter, honest and 
hearty. "How dense of me not to have known the moment you 
addressed me! Who but the American holds in scorn custom's 
formalities and usages? Your grammar is good, so good that my 
mistake is pardonable. The American is always like the terrible 
infant; and you are a choice example."

Maurice was not so pleased as he might have been. His ears 
burned. Still, he went forward bravely. "A man never pretends to 
be an Englishman without getting into trouble."

"I did not ask to speak to you. No one ever pretends to be an 
American. Why is it you are always ashamed of your country?" 
with malice aforethought.

Maurice experienced the sting of many bees. "I see that your 
experience is limited to impostors. I, Mademoiselle, am proud of 
my country, the great, free land which stands aside from the 
turmoil and laughs at your petty squabbles, your kings, your 
princes. Laugh at me; I deserve it for not minding my own 
business, but do not laugh at my country." His face was flushed; 
he was almost angry. It was not her words; it was the contempt 
with which she had invested them. But immediately he was ashamed 
of his outburst. "Ah, Mademoiselle, you have tricked me; you 
have found the vulnerable part in my armor. I have spoken like a 
child. Permit me to apologize for my apparent lack of breeding." 
He rose, bowed, and made as though to depart.

"Sit down, Monsieur," she said, picking up her French again. "I 
forgive you. I do more; I admire. I see that your freak had 
nothing behind it but mischief. No woman need fear a man who 
colors when his country is made the subject of a jest."

All his anger evaporated. This was an invitation, and he 
accepted it. He resumed his seat.

"The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I have 
committed a transgression, but the veil tempted me."

"It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am 
waiting for some one. You may talk till that person comes." Her 
voice was now in its natural tone; and he was convinced that if 
her face were half as sweet, she must possess rare beauty. "Hush!"
as the band began to breathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They 
listened until the music ceased.

"Ah !" said he rapturously, "the polonaise! When you hear it, 
does there not recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours, 
the sibilant murmur of fragrant night winds through the crisp 
foliage, the faint call of Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-
fairies dancing on the spider-webs, the glint of the dew on the 
roses, the far-off music of the surges tossing impotently on the 
sands, the forgetfulness of time and place and care, and not a 
cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, the polonaise!"

"Surely you must be a poet!" declared the Veil, when this 
panegyric was done.

"No," said he modestly, "I never was quite poor enough for that 
exalted position." He had recovered his good humor.

"Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when 
not in search of--comic operas?"

"I serve Ananias."

"Ananias?" A pause. "Ah, you are a diplomat?"

"How clever of you to guess."

"Yours is a careless country," observed the Veil.

"Careless?" mystified.

"Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There 
are hopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will 
become bald and reserved; you will not speak to strangers, to 
while away an idle hour; for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise, 
to tell you that it is a dangerous practice."

"And do I look so very young?"

"Your beard is that of a boy."

"David slew Goliath."

"At least you have a ready tongue," laughing.

"And you told me that I had been a soldier."

But to this she had nothing to say.

"I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have 
been a soldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no 
cushion sword. Youth? 'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides, 
it is an excellent disguise."

For some time she remained pensive.

"You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle."

"Do you like adventure?"

"I subsist on it."

"You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use 
of arms?"

"They tell me so," modestly. What was coming?

"I have some influence. May I trust you?"

"On my honor," puzzled, yet eager.

"There may be a comic opera, as you call it. War is not so 
impossible as to be laughed at. The dove may fly away and the 
ravens come."

"Who in thunder might this woman be?" he thought.

"And," went on the Veil, "an extra saber might be used. Give me 
your address, in case I should find it necessary to send for you."

Now Maurice was a wary youth. Under ordinary circumstances he 
would have given a fictitious address to this strange sybil with 
the prophecy of war; for he had accosted her only in the spirit 
of fun. But here was the key which he had been seeking, the key 
to all that had brought him to Bleiberg. Intrigue, adventure, or 
whatever it was, and to whatever end, he plunged into it. He 
drew out a card case, selected a card on which he wrote "Room 12,
Continental," and passed it over the table. She read it, and 
slipped it into her purse.

Maurice thought: "Who wouldn't join the army with such 
recruiting officers?"

While the pantomime took place, a man pushed by Maurice's chair 
and crossed over to the table recently occupied by him. He sat 
down, lit a short pipe, rested his feet on the lowest rung of 
the ladder-like railing, and contemplated the western hills, 
which by now were enveloped in moon mists. Neither Maurice nor 
his mysterious vis-a-vis remarked him. Indeed, his broad back 
afforded but small attraction. And if he puffed his pipe 
fiercely, nobody cared, since the breeze carried the smoke 
waterward.

After putting the card into her purse, Mademoiselle of the 
Veil's gaze once more wandered toward the entrance, and this 
time it grew fixed. Maurice naturally followed it, and he saw a 
tall soldier in fatigue dress elbowing his way through the crush.
Many moved aside for him; those in uniform saluted.

"Monsieur," came from behind the veil, "you may go now. I 
dismiss you. If I have need of you I promise to send for you."

He stood up. "I thank you for the entertainment and the promise 
you extend. I shall be easily found," committing himself to 
nothing. "I suppose you are a person of importance in affairs."

"It is not unlikely. I see that you love adventure for its own 
sake, for you have not asked me if it be the duchy or the 
kingdom. Adieu, Monsieur," with a careless wave of the gray-
gloved hand. "Adieu!"

He took his dismissal heroically and shot a final glance at the 
approaching soldier. His brows came together.

"Where," he murmured, "have I seen that picturesque countenance 
before? Not in Europe; but where?" He caught the arm of a 
passing gendarme. "Who is that gentleman in fatigue uniform, 
coming this way?"

"That, Monsieur," answered the gendarme in tones not unmixed 
with awe, "is Colonel Beauvais of the royal cuirassiers."

"Thanks. . . . Beauvais; I do not remember the name. Truly I 
have had experiences to-day. And for what house is Mademoiselle 
of the Veil? Ravens? War? `Voici le sabre de mon pyre!'" and 
with a gay laugh he went his way.

Meanwhile Colonel Beauvais arrived at the table, tipped his hat 
to the Veil, who rose and laid a hand on his arm. He guided her 
through the pressing crowds.

"Ah, Madame," he said, "you are very brave to choose such a 
rendezvous."

"Danger is a tonic to the ill-spirited," was the reply.

"If aught should happen to you--"

"It was in accord with her wishes that I am here. She suffers 
from impatience; and I would risk much to satisfy her whims."

"So would I, Madame; even life." There was a tremor of passion 
in his voice, but she appeared not to notice it. "Here is a nook 
out of the lights; we may talk here with safety."

"And what is the news?" she asked.

"This: The man remains still in obscurity. But he shall be found.
 Listen," and his voice fell into a whisper.

"Austria?" Mademoiselle of the Veil pressed her hands together 
in excitement. "Is it true?"

"Did I not promise you? It is so true that the end is in sight. 
Conspiracy is talked openly in the streets, in the cafes, 
everywhere. The Osians will be sand in the face of a tidal wave. 
A word from me, and Kronau follows it. It all would be so easy 
were it not for the archbishop."

"The archbishop?" contemptuously.

"Ay, Madame; he is a man so deep, with a mind so abyssmal, that 
I would give ten years of my life for a flash of his thoughts. 
He has some project; apparently he gives his whole time to the 
king. He loves this weak man Leopold; he has sacrificed the red 
hat for him, for the hat would have taken him to Italy, as we 
who procured it intended it should."

"The archbishop? Trust me; one month from now he will be 
recalled. That is the news I have for you."

"You have taken a weight from my mind. What do you think in 
regard to the rumor of the prince and the peasant girl?"

"It afforded me much amusement. You are a man of fine inventions."

"Gaze toward the upper end of the pavilion, the end which we 
have just left. Yes--there. I am having the owner of those broad 
shoulders watched. That gendarme leaning against the pillar 
follows him wherever he goes."

"Who is he?"

"That I am trying to ascertain. This much-- he is an Englishman."

Mademoiselle of the Veil laughed. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but 
the remembrance of a recent adventure of mine was too strong."



Maurice could not regain his interest in the scene. He strolled 
in and out of the moving groups, but no bright eyes or winning 
smiles allured him. Impelled by curiosity, he began to draw near 
the shadowed nook. Curiosity in a journalist is innate, and time 
nor change can efface it. Curiosity in those things which do not 
concern us is wrong. Ethics disavows the practice, though 
philosophy sustains it. Perhaps in this instance Maurice was 
philosophical, not ethical. Perhaps he wanted to hear the 
woman's voice again, which was excusable. Perhaps it was neither 
the one nor the other, but fate, which directed his footsteps. 
Certain it is that the subsequent adventures would never have 
happened had he gone about his business, as he should have done.

"Who is this who stares at us?" asked Beauvais, with a piercing 
glance and a startled movement of his shoulders.

"A disciple of Pallas and a pupil of Mars," was the answer. "I 
have been recruiting, Colonel. There is sharpness sometimes in 
new blades. Do not draw him with your eyes."

The Colonel continued his scrutiny, however, and there was an 
ugly droop at the corners of his mouth, though it was partly 
hidden under his mustache.

Maurice, aware that he was not wanted, passed along, having in 
mind to regain his former seat by the railing.

"Colonel," he mused, "your face grows more familiar every moment.
It was not associated with agreeable things. But, what were 
they? Hang it! you shall have a place in my thoughts till I have 
successfully labeled you. Humph! Some one seems to have 
appropriated my seat."

He viewed with indecision the broad back of the interloper, who 
at that moment turned his head. At the sight of that bronzed 
profile Maurice gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. He 
stepped forward and dropped his hand on the stranger's shoulder.

"John Fitzgerald, or henceforth garlic shall be my salad!" he 
cried in loud, exultant tones.




CHAPTER VII


SOME DIALOGUE, A SPRAINED ANKLE, AND SOME SOLDIERS

The stranger returned Maurice's salute with open-mouthed dismay; 
the monocle fell from his eye, he grasped the table with one 
hand and pushed back the chair with the other, while Maurice 
heard the name of an exceedingly warm place.

The gendarme, who was leaning against the pillar, straightened, 
opened his jaws, snapped them, and hurried off.

"Maurice--Maurice Carewe?" said the bewildered Englishman.

"No one else, though I must say you do not seem very glad to see 
me," Maurice answered, conscious that he was all things but 
welcome.

"Hang you, I'm not!" incogitantly.

"Go to the devil, then!" cried Maurice, hotly.

"Gently," said Fitzgerald, catching Maurice by the coat and 
pulling him down into a chair. "Confound you, could you not have 
made yourself known to me without yelling my name at the top of 
your voice?"

"Are you ashamed of it?" asked Maurice, loosing his coat from 
Fitzgerald's grip.

"I'm afraid of it," the Englishman admitted, in a lowered voice. 
"And your manly, resonant tones have cast it abroad. I am here 
incognito."

"Who the deuce are you?"

"I am Don Jahpet of Armenia; that is to say that I am a marked 
man. And now, as you would inelegantly express it, you have put 
a tag on me. When I left you in Vienna the other day I lied to 
you. I am sorry. I should have trusted you, only I did not wish 
you to risk your life. You would have insisted on coming along."

"Risked my life?" echoed Maurice. "How many times have I not 
risked it? By the way," impressed by a sudden thought, "are you 
the Englishman every one seems to be expecting?"

"Yes." Fitzgerald knocked his pipe against the railing. "I am 
the man. Worse luck! Was any one near when you called me by 
name?"

"Only one of those wooden gendarmes."

"Only one of those wooden gendarmes!" ironically. "Only one of 
those dogs who have been at my heels ever since I arrived. And 
he, having heard, has gone back to his master. Well, since you 
have started the ball rolling, it is no more than fair that you 
should see the game to its end."

"What's it all about?" asked Maurice, his astonishment growing 
and growing.

"Where are your rooms?"

"You have something important to tell me?"

"Perhaps you may think so. At the Continental? Come along."

They passed out of the pavilion, along the path to the square, 
thence to the terrace of the Continental, which they mounted. 
Not a word was said, but Maurice was visibly excited, and by 
constant gnawing ruined his cigar. He conducted his friend to 
the room on the second floor, the window of which opened on a 
private balcony. Here he placed two chairs and a small table; 
and with a bottle of tokayer between them they seated themselves.

"What's it all about?"

"O, only a crown and a few millions in money."

"Only a crown and a few millions in money," repeated Maurice 
very slowly, for his mind could scarcely accept Fitzgerald and 
these two greatest treasures on earth.

A gendarme had leisurely followed them from the park. He took 
aside a porter and quietly plied him with questions. Evidently 
the answers were satisfactory, for he at once departed.

Maurice stared at the Englishman.

"Knocks you up a bit, eh?" said Fitzgerald. "Well, I am rather 
surprised myself; that is to say, I was."

"Fire away," said Maurice.

"To begin with, if I do not see the king to-morrow, it is not 
likely that I ever shall."

"The king?"

"My business here is with his Majesty."

Maurice filled the glasses and pushed one across the table.

"Here's!" said he, and gulped.

Fitzgerald drank slowly, however, as if arranging in his mind 
the salient points in his forthcoming narrative.

"I have never been an extraordinarily communicative man; what I 
shall tell you is known only to my former Colonel and myself. At 
Calcutta, where you and I first met, I was but a Lieutenant in 
her Majesty's. To-day I am burdened with riches such as I know 
not how to use, and possessor of a title which sounds strange in 
my ears."

The dim light from the gas-jet in the room flickered over his 
face, and Maurice saw that it was slightly contorted, as if by pain.

"My father was Lord Fitzgerald."

"What!" cried Maurice, "the diplomat, the historian, the 
millionaire?"

"The same. Thirteen years ago we parted--a misunderstanding. I 
never saw him again. Six months ago he died and left me a 
fortune, a title and a strange legacy; and it is this legacy 
which brings me to Bleiberg. Do you know the history of Leopold?"

"I do. This throne belongs to the house of Auersperg, and the 
Osian usurps. The fact that the minister of the duchess has been 
discredited was what brought me here. Continue."

And Fitzgerald proceeded briefly to acquaint the other with the 
strange caprice of his father; how, when he left Bleiberg, he 
had been waylaid and the certificates demanded; how he had 
entrusted them to his valet, who had gone by another route; how 
the duke had sought him in Vienna and made offers, bribes and 
threats; how he had laughed at all, and sworn that Duke Josef 
should never be a king.

"My father wished to save Leopold in spite of himself; and then, 
he had no love for Josef. At a dinner given at the legation, 
there was among others a toast to her Majesty. The duke laughed 
and tossed the wine to the floor. It lost him his crown, for my 
father never forgave the insult. When the duke died, his 
daughter took up the work with surprising vigor. It was all 
useless; father was a rock, and would listen neither to bribes 
nor threats. Now they are after me. They have hunted me in India,
London, and Vienna. I am an obscure soldier, with all my titles 
and riches; they threaten me with death. But I am here, and my 
father's wishes shall be carried out. That is all. I am glad 
that we have come together; you have more invention than I have."

"But why did you come yourself? You could have sent an agent. 
That would have been simple."

"An agent might be bought. It was necessary for me to come. 
However, I might have waited till the twentieth. I should have 
come openly and informed the British minister of my mission. As 
to the pheasants, they could have waited. Perhaps my fears are 
without foundation, unless you have been the unconscious cause 
of my true name being known. Every one has heard the story. It 
is known as 'Fitzgerald's folly,' and has gone the rounds of the 
diplomatic circles for ten years. I shall ask for an audience to-
morrow morning."

"And these certificates fall due the same day that the princess 
is to be married," mused his auditor. "What a yarn for the 
papers!" his love of sensation being always close to the surface.
"Your father, you say, took four million crowns; what became of 
the fifth?"

"The duke was permitted to secure that."

"A kind of court plaster for his wounds, eh? Why don't you get 
that other million and run the kingdom yourself? It's a great 
opportunity." Maurice laughed.

"Her Royal Highness must not be forgotten. My father thought 
much of her."

"But really I do not see why you are putting yourself to all 
this trouble. The king will pay off the indebtedness; the 
kingdom is said to be rich, or Austria wouldn't meddle with it."

"The king, on the twentieth of this month, will be some three 
millions short."

"And since he can not pay he is bankrupt. Ah, I see the plan. 
The duke knew that he wouldn't be able to pay."

"You have hit it squarely."

"But Austria, having placed Leopold here, is his sponsor."

"Austria has too many debts of her own; she will have to disavow 
her protege, which is a fact not unthought of by the house of 
Auersperg. By constant machination and intrigue the king's 
revenues have been so depleted that ordinary debts are 
troublesome. The archbishop, to stave off the probable end, 
brought about the alliance between the houses of Carnavia and 
Osia. My business here is to arrange for a ten years' renewal of 
the loan, and that is what the duchess wishes to prevent, mon 
ami. What's to become of the king and his daughter if aught in 
the way of mishap should befall me? I have not seen the king, 
but I have seen her Royal Highness."

"What is she like?" Maurice asked, innocently. He saw no reason 
why he should confide to the Englishman his own adventure.

"I'm not much of a judge," said Fitzgerald cautiously. "I have 
lived most of my life in cantonments where women were old and 
ran mostly to tongue. I should say that she is beautiful." A 
short sigh followed this admission.

"Ah!" said Maurice with a loud laugh to cover the sudden pang of 
jealousy which seized him; "in gratitude for saving her father's 
throne the daughter will fall in love with you. It is what the 
dramatist calls logical sequence."

"Why don't you write novels? Your imagination has no bounds."

"Writing novels is too much like work. But I'm serious. Your 
position in the world to-day is nearly equal to hers, and 
certainly more secure. Ah, yes; I must not forget that prince. 
He's a lucky dog--and so are you, for that matter. Millions and 
titles! And I have slapped you cavalierly on the back, smoked 
your cigars, drunk your whisky, and beaten you at poker!" 
comically.

"Ah, Maurice, it is neither wealth nor titles; it is freedom. I 
am like a boy out of school for good and all. Women, the society 
of women, who are the salt of earth; that is what I want. I have 
knocked out thirteen years of my life in furnace holes, and have 
not met nor spoken to a dozen young women in all that time. How 
I envy you! You know every one; you have seen the world;. you 
are at home in Paris, or London, or Vienna; you have enjoyed all 
I wish to enjoy."

"Why did you ever get into the army?"

"You ought to know."

"But it was bread and butter to me."

"Well, I was young; I saw fame and glory. If the matter under 
hand is closed to-morrow, what do you say to the Carpathians and 
bears? I shall not remain here; some one will be looking for 
blood. What do you say?"

"I don't know," said Maurice, thoughtfully. He was thinking of 
Mademoiselle of the Veil and her prophecy of ravens. "I don't 
know that I shall be able. It is my opinion that your part in 
the affair is only a curtain-raiser to graver things. Every one 
of importance in town goes about with an air of expectancy. I 
never saw anything like it. It is the king, the archbishop and 
the chancellor against two hundred thousand. You're a soldier; 
can't you smell powder?"

"Powder! You do not believe the duchess mad enough to wage war?"

"Trust a woman to do what no one dreams she will."

"But Austria would be about her ears in a minute!"

"Maybe. Have you seen this Colonel Beauvais of the royal 
cuirassiers, the actual head of the army here?"

"A fine soldier," said the Englishman, heartily. "Rides like a 
centaur and wields a saber as if it were a piece of straw."

"I can hold a pretty good blade myself; I've an idea that I can 
lick him at both games."

Fitzgerald laughed good-naturedly. "There is the one flaw in 
your make-up. I admit your horsemanship; but the saber! Believe 
me, it is only the constant practice and a wrist of iron which 
make the saber formidable. You are more familiar with the pen; I 
dare say you could best him at that."

"What makes you think I can not lick him?"

"Since when have the saber and the civilian been on terms? And 
these continental sabers are matchless, the finest in the world. 
I trust you will steer clear of the Colonel; if you have any 
challenge in mind, spring it on me, and I'll let you down easy." 
Then: "Why the devil do you want to lick him, anyway?"

"I don't know," said Maurice. "I had a close range to-night, and 
somehow the man went against the grain. Well, Jack, I'll stay 
with you in this affair, though, as the county judge at home 
would say, it's out of my circuit."

They shook hands across the table.

"Come," said Fitzgerald; "a toast, for I must be off."

"What do you say to her Royal Highness?"

"Let us make it general: to all women!"

They set down the glasses and shook hands again.

"It seemed good to run across you in Vienna, Maurice. You were 
one of the bright spots in the old days."

"Do you want me to walk with you to the Grand? It's a fine night,"
said Maurice, waving his hand toward the moon. "By George, 
what a beautiful place this end of Bleiberg is! I do not wonder 
that the duchess covets it."

"No, I'll go alone. All I have to do is to march straight up the 
Strasse."

"Well, good-night and good luck to you," said Maurice, as he led 
the Englishman into the hallway. "Look me up when you have 
settled the business. I say, but it gets me; it's the strangest 
thing I ever heard." And he waited till the soldierly form 
disappeared below the landing.

Then he went back to his chair on the balcony to think it over. 
At four o'clock that afternoon he had grumbled of dullness. He 
lit a pipe, and contemplated the soft and delicate blues of 
earth and heaven, the silvery flashes on the lake, and the slim 
violet threads of smoke which wavered about his head. It was 
late. Now and then the sound of a galloping horse was borne up 
by the breeze, and presently Maurice heard the midnight bell 
boom forth from the sleepy spires of the cathedral--where the 
princess was to be married.

One by one the lamps of the park went out, but the moon shone on,
lustrous and splendid. First he reviewed his odd adventure in 
the archbishop's gardens. He had spoken to princesses before, 
but they were women of the world, hothouse roses that bloom and 
wither in a short space. The atmosphere which surrounded this 
princess was idyllic, pastoral. She had seen nothing of the 
world, its sports and pastimes, and the art of playing at love 
was unknown to her. Again he could see her serious eyes, the 
delicate chin and mouth, the oval cheeks, and the dog that 
followed in her steps. Here was an indelible picture which time 
could never efface. Something stirred in his heart, and he 
sighed.

And ah, the woman in the veil! Who could she be? The more he 
thought of her the more convinced he was that she stood high in 
the service of any one but Leopold of Osia. And Fitzgerald! That 
sober old soldier concerned with crowns and millions! It was 
incredible; it was almost laughable. They had met up-country in 
India, and had hunted, and Maurice had saved the Englishman's 
life. Occasionally they had corresponded.

"Well, to bed," said the young diplomat. "This has been a full 
day." And, like the true newspaper man he was, for all his 
diplomacy, he emptied the bottle and entered the room. He was 
about to disrobe, when some one rapped on the door. He opened it,
and beheld a man in the livery of the Grand Hotel. He was 
breathing hard.

"Herr Carewe?"

"Yes. What's wanted?"

"Herr Hamilton--"

"Hamilton? O, yes. Go on."

"Herr Hamilton bade me to tell your Excellency that in returning 
to the hotel he sprained his ankle, and wishes to know if Herr 
would not be so kind as to spend the night with him."

"Certainly. Run down to the office, and I shall be with you 
shortly." Again alone, Maurice opened his trunk. He brought 
forth a pint flask of brandy, some old handkerchiefs to be used 
as bandages, and a box of salve he used for bruises when on 
hunting expeditions. In turning over his clothes his hand came 
into contact with his old army revolver. He scratched his head. 
"No, it's too much like a cannon, and there's no room for it in 
my pockets." He pushed it aside, rose and slammed the lid of the 
trunk. "Sprained his ankle? He wasn't gone more than an hour. 
How the deuce is he to see the king to-morrow? Probably wishes 
to appoint me his agent. That's it. Very well." He proceeded to 
the office, where he found the messenger waiting for him. "Come 
on, and put life into your steps."

Together they traversed the moonlit thoroughfare. Few persons 
were astir. Once the night patrol clattered by. They passed 
through the markets, and not far ahead they could see the 
university. It looked like a city prison.

"This is the hotel, Herr," said the messenger.

They entered. Maurice approached the proprietor, who was pale 
and flurried; but as Maurice had never seen the natural repose 
of his countenance, he thought nothing of it.

"My friend, Herr Hamilton, has met with an accident. Where is 
his room?"

"Number nine; Johann will show you." He acted as if he had 
something more to say, but a glance from the round-faced porter 
silenced him. Maurice lost much by not seeing this glance. He 
followed the messenger up the stairs.

There were no transoms. The corridor was devoid of illumination. 
The porter struck a match and held it close to the panel of a 
door under which a thread of light streamed.

"This is it, Herr," he bawled, so loudly that Maurice started.

"There was no need of waking the dead to tell me," he growled.

The door opened, and before Maurice could brace himself--for the 
interior of the room made all plain to him--he was violently 
pushed over the threshold on to his knees. He was up in an 
instant. The room was filled with soldiers, foot soldiers of the 
king, so it seemed.

"What the devil is this?" he demanded, brushing his knees and 
cursing himself because he had not brought his Colt when fate 
had put it almost in his hand.

"It is a banquet, young man. We were waiting for the guest of 
honor."

Maurice turned to the speaker, and saw a medium-sized man with 
gray hair and a frosty stubble of a mustache. He wore no 
insignia of office. Indeed, as Maurice gazed from one man to the 
next he saw that there were no officers; and it came to him that 
these were not soldiers of the king. He was in a trap. He 
thought quickly. Fitzgerald was in trouble, perhaps on his 
account. Where was he?

"I do not see my friend who sprained his ankle," he said coolly.

This declaration was greeted with laughter.

"Evidently I have entered the wrong room," he continued 
imperturbably. He stepped toward the door, but a burly 
individual placed his back to it.

"Am I a prisoner, or the victim of a practical joke?"

"Either way," said the man with the frosty mustache.

"Why?"

"You have recently formed a dangerous acquaintance, and we 
desire to aid you in breaking it."

"Are you aware, gentlemen--no, I don't mean gentlemen--that I am 
attached to the American legation in Vienna, and that my person 
is inviolable?"

Everybody laughed again--everybody but Maurice.

"Allow me to correct you," put in the elderly man, who evidently 
was the leader in the affair. "You are not attached; you are 
detached. Gentlemen, permit me, M. Carewe, detache of the 
American legation in Vienna, who wishes he had stayed there."

Maurice saw a brace of revolvers on the mantel. The table stood 
between.

"Well," he said, banteringly, "bring on your banquet; the hour 
is late."

"That's the way; don't lose your temper, and no harm will come 
to you."

"What do you wish of me?"

"Merely the pleasure of your company. Lieutenant, bring out the 
treasure."

One of the soldiers entered the next room and soon returned 
pushing Fitzgerald before him. The Englishman was bound and gagged.

"How will you have the pheasant served?" asked the leader.

"Like a gentleman!" cried Maurice, letting out a little of his 
anger. "Take out the gag; he will not cry."

The leader nodded, and Fitzgerald's mouth was relieved. He spat 
some blood on the carpet, then looked at his captors, the devil 
in his eyes.

"Proceed to kill me and have done," he said.

"Kill you? No, no!"

"I advise you to, for if you do not kill me, some day I shall be 
free again, and then God help some of you."

Maurice gazed at the candles on the table, and smiled.

"I'm sorry they dragged you into it, Maurice," said Fitzgerald.

"I'm glad they did. What you want is company." There was a 
glance, swift as light. It went to the mantel, then passed to 
the captive. "Well," said Maurice, "what is next on your damned 
program?"

"The other side of the frontier."

"Maybe," said Maurice.

With an unexpected movement he sent the table over, the lights 
went out; and he had judged the distance so accurately that he 
felt his hands close over the revolvers.

"The door! the door!" a voice bawled. "Knock down any one who 
attempts to pass."

This was precisely what Maurice desired. With the soldiers 
massed about the door, he would be free to liberate Fitzgerald; 
which he did. He had scarcely completed the task, when a flame 
spurted up. The leader fearlessly lit a candle and righted the 
table. He saw both his prisoners, one of them with extended arms,
at the ends of which glistened revolver barrels.

"The devil!" he said.

"Maybe it is," replied Maurice. "Now, my gay banqueteers, open 
the door; and the first man who makes a suspicious movement will 
find that I'm a tolerable shot."

"Seize him, your Excellency!" shouted one of the troopers. 
"Those are my revolvers he has, and they are not loaded."




CHAPTER VIII


THE RED CHATEAU

Two o'clock in the morning, on the king's highway, and a small 
body of horse making progress. The moon was beginning to roll 
away toward the west, but the world was still frost-white, and 
the broad road stretched out like a silver ribbon before the 
horsemen, until it was lost in the blue mist of the forests.

The troop consisted of ten men, two of whom rode with their 
hands tied behind their backs and their feet fastened under the 
bellies of the horses. The troop was not conspicuous for this 
alone. Three others had their heads done up in handkerchiefs, 
and a fourth carried his arm in a sling.

Five miles to the rear lay the sleeping city of Bleiberg, twenty 
miles beyond rose the formidable heights of the Thalians. At 
times the horses went forward at a gallop, but more often they 
walked; when they galloped the man with his arm in the sling 
complained. Whenever the horses dropped into a walk, the leader 
talked to one of the prisoners.

"You fight like the very devil, my friend," he said; "but we 
were too many by six. Mind, I think none the less of you for 
your attempt; freedom is always worth fighting for. As I said 
before, no harm is meant to you, physically; as to the moral 
side, that doesn't concern me. You have disabled four of my men, 
and have scarcely a dozen scratches to show for it. I wanted to 
take only four men with me; I was ordered to take eight. The 
hand of providence is in it."

"You wouldn't be so polite, Colonel," spoke up the trooper whose 
arm was in the sling, "if you had got this crack."

"Baron, who told you to call me Colonel?" the leader demanded.

"Why, we are out of the city; there's no harm now that I can see."

"Is it possible," said Maurice ironically, "that I have had the 
honor of hitting a baron on the head and breaking his arm?"

The baron muttered a curse and fell back.

"And you," went on Maurice, addressing the leader, "are a 
Colonel?"

"Yes."

"For the duchess?"

"For the duchess."

"A black business for you, Colonel; take my word for it."

"A black business it is; but orders are orders. Have you ever 
been a soldier?"

"I have."

"Well, there's nothing more to be said."

"America--" Maurice began.

"Is several thousand miles away."

"Not if you reckon from Vienna."

"I'd rather not reckon, if it's all the same to you. Your friend--
I might say, your very valuable friend--takes the matter too 
much to heart."

"He's not a talkative man."

Fitzgerald looked straight ahead, stern and impassive.

"But now that we are talking," said Maurice, "I should like to 
know how the deuce you got hold of my name and dragged me into 
this affair?"

"Simple enough. A card of yours was given to me; on it was your 
name and address. The rest was easy."

Maurice grew limp in the saddle.

"By George! I had forgotten! The woman is at the bottom of it."

"Quite likely. I thought you'd come to that conclusion. 
Sometimes when we play with foxes they lead us into bear traps. 
Young man, witness these gray hairs; never speak to strange 
women, especially when they wear veils."

Fitzgerald was now attending the conversation.

"And who is this woman?" asked Maurice.

"Mademoiselle of the Veil, according to your picturesque 
imagination; to me she is the intimate friend and adviser of her 
Highness Stephonia." He wheeled to the troopers with a laugh: 
"Hoch, you beggars, hoch!"

Maurice indulged in some uncomplimentary remarks, among which 
was: "I'm an ass!"

"Every man improves on making that discovery; the Darwinian 
theory is wrong."

After a pause Maurice said: "How did you get on the ground so 
quickly?"

"We arrived yesterday afternoon as the escort of your charmer. A 
pretty woman finds it troublesome to travel alone in these parts.
When you slapped your friend on the back and bawled out his 
name--a name known from one end of the kingdom to the other--the 
plan of action was immediately formed. You were necessary, for 
it was taken for granted that you knew too much. You had also 
promised your sword," with a chuckle.

"I made no promise," said Maurice. "I only said that I should 
easily be found when wanted."

"Well, so you were; there's no gainsaying that."

Maurice said some more uncomplimentary things.

"It was neatly done, you will admit. Life is a game of cards; he 
wins who plays first."

"Or he doesn't. Colonel, a game is won only when it is played'."

"That's true enough."

"Kings are a tolerable bother on earth," Maurice declared, 
trying to ease his wrists by holding them higher against his 
back.

"What do you know about them?"

"When I was in the army I often fell in with three or four of a 
night."

"Eh?--kings?"

"Yes; but usually I was up against aces or straight flushes."

"Cards! Well, well; when you get down to the truth of the matter,
real kings differ but little from the kings in pasteboard; 
right side up, or wrong side up, they serve the purpose of those 
who play them. There's a poor, harmless devil back there," with 
a nod toward Bleiberg. "He never injured a soul. Perhaps that's 
it; had he been cruel, avaricious, sly, all of them would be 
cringing at his feet. Devil take me--but I'm a soldier," he 
broke off abruptly; "it's none of my business."

"Have you any titles?" Maurice asked presently.

"Titles?" The Colonel jerked around on his horse. "Why?"

"O," said Maurice carelessly, "I thought it not unlikely that 
you might have a few lying around loose."

The Colonel roared. "You Americans beat the very devil with your 
questions. Well, I am politely known as Count Mollendorf, if 
that will gratify you."

"What! brother of Mollendorf of the king's police?"

"God save the mark! No; I am an honest man --some of the time."

Maurice laughed; the old fellow was amusing, and besides, this 
conversation helped to pass away the time.

"Wake up, Jack; here's entertainment," he said.

A scowl added itself to the stern expression on Fitzgerald's 
face.

"I trust that none of your teeth are loose," ventured the 
Colonel.

"If they are, they'll be tight enough ere many days have passed,"
was the threatening reply.

"Beware the dog!" cried the Colonel, and he resumed his place at 
the head of the little troop.

Maurice took this opportunity to bend toward Fitzgerald. "Have 
you anything of importance about you?" he whispered 
significantly.

"Nothing. But God send that no chambermaid change the sheet in 
my bed at the hotel."

"Are they--"

"Silence." Fitzgerald saw the trooper next with his hand to his ear.

After a time the Colonel sang out: "Fifteen miles more, with 
three on the other side, men; we must put more life into us. A 
trot for a few miles. The quicker the ride is done, baron, the 
quicker the surgeon will look to your arm."

And silence fell upon the troop. Occasionally a stray horse in 
the fields whinneyed, and was answered from the road; sometimes 
the howl of a dog broke the monotony. On and on they rode; hour 
and mile were left behind them. The moon fell lower and lower, 
and the mountains rose higher and higher, and the wind which had 
risen had a frosty sting to it. Maurice now began to show the 
true state of his temper by cursing his horse whenever it rubbed 
against one of its fellows. His back was lame, and there was a 
dull pain in one of his shoulders. When he had made the rush for 
the door, clubbing right and left with the empty revolvers, he 
had finally been thrown on an overturned chair.

"Here, hang you!" he said to the trooper who held the bridle of 
his horse, "I'm cold; you might at least turn up my collar about 
my throat."

"You are welcome to my cloak," said the trooper, disengaging 
that article from his shoulders.

"Thank you," said Maurice, somewhat abashed by the respectful tone.

The trooper offered his blanket to Fitzgerald.

"I wish no favors," said the Englishman, thanklessly.

The trooper shrugged, and caught up Maurice's bridle.

At length the troop arrived at the frontier. There was no sign 
of life at the barrack. They passed unchallenged.

"What!" exclaimed Maurice, "do they sleep here at night, then? A 
fine frontier barrack." He had lived in hopes of more 
disturbance and a possible chance for liberty.

"They will wake up to-day," answered the Colonel; "that is, if 
the wine we gave them was not too strong. Poor devils; they must 
be good and cold by this time, since we have their clothes. What 
do you think of a king whose soldiers drink with any strangers 
who chance along?"

Maurice became resigned. To him the present dynasty was as 
fragile as glass, and it needed but one strong blow to shatter 
it into atoms. And the one hope rode at his side, sullen and 
wrathful, but impotent; the one hope the king had to save his 
throne. He had come to Bleiberg in search of excitement, but 
this was altogether more than he had bargained for.

The horses began to lift and were soon winding in and out of the 
narrow mountain pass. The chill of the overhanging snows fell 
upon them.

"It wouldn't have hurt you to accept the blanket," said Maurice 
to Fitzgerald.

"Curse it! I want nothing but two minutes freedom. It would be 
warm enough then."

"No confidences, gentlemen," warned the Colonel; "I understand 
English tolerably well."

"Go to the devil, then, if you do!" said Fitzgerald 
discourteously.

"When the time comes," tranquilly. "Of the two I like your 
friend the better. To be resigned to the inevitable is a sign of 
good mental balance."

"I am not used to words," replied the Englishman.

"You are used to orders. I am simply obeying mine. If I took you 
off your guard it was because I had to, and not because I liked 
that method best. Look alive, men; it's down hill from now on."

A quarter of an hour later the troop arrived at the duchy's 
frontier post. There was no sleep here. The Colonel flung 
himself from his horse and exercised his legs.

"Sergeant," he said, "how far behind the others?"

"They passed two hours ago, Excellency. And all is well?" 
deferentially.

"All is indeed well," with a gesture toward the prisoners.

"I've a flask of brandy in my hip pocket," said Maurice. "Will 
you help me to a nip, Colonel?"

"Pardon me, gentlemen; I had forgotten that your hands were 
still in cords. Corporal," to a trooper, "relieve their hands."

The prisoners rubbed their wrists and hands, which were numb and 
cold. Maurice produced his flask.

"I was bringing it along for your sprained ankle," he said, as 
he extended the flask to Fitzgerald, who drank a third of it. 
"I'd offer you some, Colonel, only it would be like heaping 
coals of fire on your head; and, besides, I want it all myself." 
He returned the emptied flask to his pocket, feeling a moderate 
warmth inside.

"Drink away, my son," said the Colonel, climbing into the saddle;
"there'll be plenty for me for this night's work. Forward!"

The troop took up the march again, through a splendid forest 
kept clear of dead wood by the peasants. It abounded with game. 
The shrill cry of the pheasants, the rustle of the partridges in 
the underbrush, the bark of the fox, all rose to the ears of the 
trespassers. The smell of warm earth permeated the air, and the 
sky was merging from silver into gold.

When Napoleon humiliated Austria for the second time, one of his 
mushroom nobles, who placed too much faith in the man of destiny,
selected this wooded paradise as a residence. He built him a 
fine castle of red brick, full of wide halls and drawing rooms 
and chambers of state, and filled it with fabulous paintings, 
Gobelin tapestries, and black walnut wainscot. He kept a small 
garrison of French soldiers by converting the huge stables 
partly into a barrack. One night the peasantry rose. There was a 
conflict, as the walls still show; and the prince by patent fled,
no one knew where. After its baptism in blood it became known 
far and wide as the Red Chateau. Whenever children were unruly, 
they were made docile by threats of the dark dungeons of the Red 
Chateau, or the ghosts of the French and German peasants who 
died there. As it now stood, it was one of the summer residences 
of her Highness.

It was here that the long night's journey came to an end.

"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, dismounting, "permit me, in the 
name of her Highness, to offer you the hospitality of Red 
Chateau. Consider; will you lighten my task by giving me your 
word of honor to make no attempt to escape? Escape is possible, 
but not probable. There are twenty fresh men and horses in the 
stables. Come, be reasonable. It will be pleasanter on both 
sides."

"So far as I'm concerned," said Maurice, who needed liberty not 
half so much as sleep, "I pass my word."

"And you, sir?" to Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald gazed about him. "Very well," he said, as he saw the 
futility of a struggle.

"Your humble servant, Messieurs," touching his cap. "Take the 
ropes off their ankles, men."

When Maurice was lifted from his horse and placed on the ground, 
his legs suddenly bent under him, and he went sprawling to the 
grass. A trooper sprang to his assistance.

"My legs have gone to sleep!"

The Englishman was affected likewise, and it was some moments 
before either could walk. They were conducted to a chamber high 
up in the left wing, which overlooked the forest and the 
mountains. It was a large airy room, but the windows were barred 
and there were double locks on the doors. The Colonel followed 
them into the room and pointed to the table.

"Breakfast, Messieurs, and a good sleep for you till this noon. 
As for the rest, let that take care of itself." And he left them.

Maurice, after having tried all the bars and locks in answer to 
his conscience, gave his attention to the breakfast. On lifting 
the covers he found fish, eggs, toast and coffee.

"Here's luck!" he cried. "We were expected."

"Curse it, Maurice!" Fitzgerald began pacing the room.

"No, no," said Maurice; "let us eat it; that's what it's here 
for," and he fell to with that vigor known only to healthy blood.

"But what's to be done?"

"Follow Solomon's advice, and wait."

"You're taking it cursed cool."

"Force of habit," breaking the toast. "What's the use of wasting 
powder? Because I have shown only the exterior, our friend the 
Colonel has already formed an opinion of me. I am brave if need 
be, but young and careless. In a day or so--for I suppose we are 
not to be liberated at once--he'll forget to use proper caution 
in respect to me. And then, 'who can say?' as the Portuguese 
says when he hasn't anything else to say. They'll keep a strict 
watch over you, my friend, because you've played the lion too 
much. Just before I left the States, as you call them, a new 
slang phrase was going the rounds;--'it is better to play the 
fox some of the time than to roar all of the time.' Ergo, be 
foxy. Take it cool. So long as you haven't got that mint packed 
about your person, the game breaks even."

"But the king!"

"Is as secure on his throne as he ever was. If you do not 
present those consols, either for renewal or collection, on the 
twentieth, he loses nothing. As you said, let us hope that the 
chambermaid is a shifty, careless lass, who will not touch your 
room till you return." Maurice broke an egg and dropped a lump 
of sugar into his cup.

"Is this the way you fight Indians?"

"Indians? What the deuce has fighting Indians to do with this? 
As to Indians, shoot them in the back if you can. Here, 
everything depends not on fighting but the right use of words. A 
man may be a diplomat and not render his country any large 
benefit; still, it's a fine individual training. Thrones stand 
on precipices and are pushed back to safety by the trick of a 
few words. Have an egg; they're fresh."

Fitzgerald sat down and gulped his coffee. "They broke my 
monocle in the struggle."

Maurice choked in his cup.

"I've worn it twelve years, too," went on Fitzgerald.

"Everything is for the best," said Maurice. "You will be able to 
see out of both eyes."

"Confound you!" cried Fitzgerald, smiling in spite of himself; 
"nothing will disturb you."

"You mean, nothing shall. Now, there's the bed and there's the 
lounge. Since you are the principal, that is to say, the 
constituent part of this affair, and also the principal actor in 
this extravaganza, suppose you take the bed and leave me the 
lounge? And the deuce take the duchess, who is probably a woman 
with a high forehead and a pair of narrow eyes!" He threw down 
his napkin and made for the lounge, without giving any 
particular attention to the smile and frown which were 
struggling in the Englishman's eyes. In less than a minute 
Maurice was dozing.

Fitzgerald thought that the best thing he could do was to follow 
the philosophical example of his friend. "These Americans," he 
mused, as he arranged the pillow under his ear, "are `fifteen 
puzzles'; you can move them, or you can't."

As for Maurice, he was already dreaming; he was too tired to 
sleep. Presently he thought he was on a horse again, and was 
galloping, galloping. He was heading his old company to the very 
fringe of the alkali. The Apaches had robbed the pay train and 
killed six men, and the very deuce was to pay all around. . . . 
Again he was swimming, and a beautiful girl reached out a hand 
and saved him. Ah! how beautiful she was, how soft and rich the 
deep brown of her eyes! . . . The scene shifted. The president 
of the South American republic had accepted his sword (unbeknown 
to the United States authorities), and he was aiding to quell 
the insurrection. And just then some one whispered to him that 
gold would rise fifty points. And as he put out his hands to 
gather in the glittering coins which were raining down, the face 
of Colonel Beauvais loomed up, scowling and furious. . . . And 
yet again came the beautiful girl. He was holding her hand and 
the archbishop had his spread out in benediction over their 
heads. . . . A hand, which was not of dreamland, shook him by 
the arm. He opened his eyes. Fitzgerald was standing over him. 
The light of the sun spangled the walls opposite the windows. 
The clock marked the eleventh hour of day.

"Hang you!" he said, with blinking eyes; "why didn't you let me 
be? I was just marrying the princess, and you've spoiled it all. 
I--" He jumped to his feet and rubbed his eyes, and, forgetful 
of all save his astonishment, pursed his lips into a low whistle.




CHAPTER IX


NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY

Standing just within the door, smiling and rubbing the gray 
bristles on his lip, was the Colonel. In the center of the room 
stood a woman dressed in gray. Maurice recognized the dress; it 
belonged to Mademoiselle of the Veil, who was now sans veil, 
sans hat. A marvelous face was revealed to Maurice, a face of 
that peculiar beauty which poets and artists are often minded to 
deny, but for the love of which men die, become great or 
terrible, overturn empires and change the map of the world.

Her luxuriant hair, which lay in careless masses about the 
shapely head and intelligent brow, was a mixture of red and 
brown and gold, a variety which never ceases to charm; skin the 
pallor of ancient marble, with the shadow of rose lying below 
the eyes, the large, gray chatoyant eyes, which answered every 
impulse of the brain which ruled them. The irregularity of her 
features was never noticeable after a glance into those eyes. At 
this moment both eyes and lips expressed a shade of amusement.

Maurice, who was astonished never more than a minute at a time, 
immediately recovered. His toilet was somewhat disarranged, and 
the back of his head a crow's nest, but, nevertheless, he placed 
a hand over his heart and offered a low obeisance.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she said, in a voice which Maurice 
would have known anywhere. "I hope the journey has caused you no 
particular annoyance."

"The annoyance was not so particular, Madame," said Fitzgerald 
stiffly, "as it was general."

"And four of my troopers will take oath to that!" interjected 
the Colonel.

"Will Madame permit me to ask when will the opera begin?" asked 
Maurice.

"I am glad," said she, "that you have lost none of your 
freshness."

Maurice was struck for a moment, but soon saw that the remark 
was innocent of any inelegance of speech. Fitzgerald was gnawing 
his mustache and looking out of the corner of his eyes--into 
hers.

"My task, I confess, is a most disagreeable one," she resumed, 
lightly beating her gauntlets together; "but when one serves 
high personages one is supposed not to have any sentiments." To 
Fitzgerald she said: "You are the son of the late Lord 
Fitzgerald."

"For your sake, I regret to say that I am."

"For my sake? Worry yourself none on that point. As the agent of 
her Highness I am inconsiderable."

"Madame," said Maurice, "will you do us the honor to inform us 
to whom we are indebted for this partiality to our distinguished 
persons?"

"I am Sylvia Amerbach," quietly.

"Amerbach?" said Maurice, who was familiar with the great names 
of the continent. "Pardon me, but that was once a famous name in 
Prussia."

"I am distantly related to that house of princes," looking at 
her gauntlets.

"Well, Madame, since your business doubtless concerns me, pray, 
begin;" and Fitzgerald leaned against the mantelpiece and 
fumbled with the rim of his monocle.

Maurice walked to one of the windows and perched himself on the 
broad sill. He began to whistle softly:

Voici le sabre de mon pere! Tu vas le mettre a ton cote. . . .

Beyond the window, at the edge of the forest, he saw a sentinel 
pacing backward and forward. Indeed, no matter which way he 
looked, the autumnal scenery had this accessory. Again, he 
inspected the bars. These were comparatively new. It was about 
thirty feet to the court below. On the whole, the outlook was 
discouraging.

"Count," said the distant relative of the house of Amerbach, 
"how shall I begin?"

"I am not a diplomat, Madame," answered the Colonel. "If, 
however, you wish the advice of a soldier, I should begin by 
asking if my lord the Englishman has those consols about his 
person."

"Fie, count!" she cried, laughing; "one would say that was a 
prelude to robbery."

"So they would. As for myself, I prefer violence to words. If we 
take these pretty papers by violence, we shall still have left 
our friend the Englishman his self-respect. And as for words, 
while my acquaintance with our friend is slight, I should say 
that they would only be wasted here."

The whistle from the window still rose and fell.

"Monsieur, I have it in my power to make you rich."

"I am rich," replied Fitzgerald.

"In honors?"

"Madame, the title I have is already a burden to me." Fitzgerald 
laughed, which announced that the cause of the duchess was not 
getting on very well. Once or twice he raised the tortoiseshell 
rim to his eye, but dropped it; force of habit was difficult to 
overcome.

"Your father nourished a particular rancor against the late duke."

"And justly, you will admit."

"Her Highness has offered you five millions for slips of paper 
worth no more than the ink which decorates them."

"And I have refused. Why? Simply because the matter does not 
rest with me. You have proceeded with a high hand, Madame, or 
rather your duchess has. Nothing will come of it. Had there been 
any possibility of my considering your proposals, this kidnaping 
would have destroyed it."

She smiled. Maurice saw the smile and stopped whistling long 
enough to scratch his chin, which was somewhat in need of a 
razor. He had seen many women smile that way. He had learned to 
read it. It was an inarticulate "perhaps."

"The rightful successor to the throne--"

"Is Madame the duchess," Fitzgerald completed. "I haven't the 
slightest doubt of that. One way or the other, it does not 
concern me. I came here simply to fulfill the wishes of my 
father; and my word, Madame, fulfill them I shall. You are 
holding me a prisoner, but uselessly. On the twentieth the 
certificates fall due against the government. If they are not 
presented either for renewal or collection, the bankruptcy 
scheme of your duchess will fall through just the same. I will 
tell you the truth, Madame. My father never expected to collect 
the moneys so long as Leopold sat on the throne."

The whistle grew shrill.

"This officer here," continued Fitzgerald, while the Colonel 
made a comical grimace, "suggests violence. I shall save him the 
trouble. I have seen much of the world, Madame--the hard side of 
it --and, knowing it as I do, it is scarcely probable that I 
should carry about my person the equivalent of four millions of 
crowns."

"Well, Madame," said the Colonel, pushing his belt closer about 
his hips, as a soldier always does when he is on the point of 
departure, "what he says is true, every word of it. I see 
nothing more to do at present."

Mademoiselle of the Veil was paying not so much attention to the 
Colonel's words as she was to Maurice's whistle.

"Monsieur," she said, coldly, "have you no other tune in your 
repertory?"

"Pardon me!" exclaimed Maurice. "I did not intend to annoy you." 
He stepped down out of the window.

"You do not annoy me; only the tune grows rather monotonous."

"I will whistle anything you may suggest," he volunteered.

She did not respond to this flippancy, though the pupils of her 
gray eyes grew large with anger. She walked the length of the 
room and back.

"Count, what do you think would be most satisfactory to her 
Highness, under the circumstances?"

"I have yet to hear of her Highness' disapproval of anything you 
undertake."

"Messieurs, your parole d'honneur, and the freedom of the 
chateau is yours--within the sentry lines. I wish to make your 
recollections of the Red Chateau rather pleasant than otherwise. 
I shall be most happy if you will honor my table with your 
presence."

The Colonel coughed, Maurice smoothed the back of his head, and 
Fitzgerald caught up his monocle.

"My word, Madame," said Maurice, "is not worth much, being that 
of a diplomat, but such as it is it is yours. However, my 
clothes are scarcely presentable," which was true enough. 
Several buttons were missing, and the collar hung by a thread.

"That can be easily remedied," said she. "There are several new 
hussar uniforms in the armory."

"O, Madame, and you will permit me to wear one of those gay 
uniforms of light blue and silver lace?"

The Colonel looked thoughtfully at Maurice. He was too much a 
banterer himself to miss the undercurrent of raillery. He eyed 
Madame discreetly; he saw that she had accepted merely the 
surface tones.

"And you will wear one, too, Jack?" said Maurice.

"No, thank you. I pass my word, Madame; I do not like 
confinement."

"Well, then, the count will shortly return and establish you in 
better quarters. Let us suppose you are my guests for a--a 
fortnight. Since both of us are right, since neither your cause 
nor mine is wrong, an armistice! Ah! I forgot. The east corridor 
on the third floor is forbidden you. Should you mistake and go 
that way, a guard will direct you properly. Messieurs, till 
dinner!" and with a smile which illumined her face as a sudden 
burst of sunshine flashes across a hillside, she passed out of 
the room, followed by her henchman, who had not yet put aside 
the thoughtful repose of his countenance.

"A house party," said Maurice, when he could no longer hear 
their footsteps. "And what the deuce have they got so valuable 
in the east corridor on the third floor?"

"It's small matter to me," said Fitzgerald tranquilly. "The main 
fact is that she has given up her game."

Said Maurice, his face expressing both pity and astonishment: 
"My dear, dear John! Didn't you see that woman's eyes, her hair, 
her chin, her nose?"

"Well?"

"True; you haven't had any experience with petticoats. This 
woman will rend heaven and earth rather than relinquish her 
projects, or rather those of her mistress. I should like to see 
this duchess, who shows a fine discernment in the selection of 
her assistants. Beware of the woman who is frankly your enemy. 
If she is frank, it is because she is confident of the end; if 
not, she is frank in order to disarm us of the suspicion of 
cunning. I would give much to know the true meaning of this 
house party."

"Hang me if I can see what difference it makes. She can not do 
anything either by frankness or by cunning."

"She gathered us in neatly, this red-haired Amazon."

"Red-haired!" in a kind of protest.

"Why, yes; that's the color, isn't it?" innocently.

"I thought it a red-brown. It's too bad that such a woman should 
be mixed up in an affair like this."

"Woman will sacrifice to ambition what she never will sacrifice 
to love. Hush; I hear the Colonel returning."

They were conducted to the opposite wing of the chateau, to a 
room on the second floor. Its windows afforded an excellent view 
of the land which lay south. Hills rolled away like waves of 
gold, dotted here and there with vineyards. Through the avenue 
of trees they could see the highway, and beyond, the river, 
which had its source in the mountains ten miles eastward.

The room itself was in red, evidently a state chamber, for it 
contained two canopied beds. Several fine paintings hung from 
the walls, and between the two windows rose one of those pier 
glasses which owe their existence to the first empire of France. 
On one of the beds Maurice saw the hussar uniform. On the 
dresser were razors and mugs and a pitcher of hot water.

"Ah," he said, with satisfaction.

"The boots may not fit you," said the Colonel, "but if they do 
not we will manage some way."

"I shall not mind the fortnight," said Maurice. "By the way, 
Colonel, I notice that French seems to prevail instead of German.
Why is that?"

"It is the common language of politeness, and servants do not 
understand it. As for myself, I naturally prefer the German 
tongue; it is blunt and honest and lacks the finesse of the 
French, which is full of evasive words and meanings. However, 
French predominates at court. Besides, heaven help the foreigner 
who tries to learn all the German tongues to be found in the 
empires of the Hohenzollern and Hapsburg. Luncheon will be 
served to you in the dining hall; the first door to the right at 
the foot of the grand staircase. I shall send you a trooper to 
act as valet."

"Spare me, Colonel," said Maurice, who did not want any one 
between him and the Englishman when they were alone.

"I have never had a valet," said Fitzgerald; "he would embarrass me."

"As you please," said the Colonel, a shade of disappointment in 
his tones. "After all, you are soldiers, where every man is for 
himself. Make yourselves at home;" and he withdrew.

Maurice at once applied lather and razor, and put on the 
handsome uniform, which fitted him snugly. The coat was tailless,
with rows of silver buttons running from collar to waist. The 
breast and shoulders and sleeves were covered with silver lace, 
and Maurice concluded that it must be nothing less than a 
captain's uniform. The trousers were tight fitting, with broad 
stripes of silver; and the half boots were of patent leather. He 
walked backward and forward before the pier-glass.

"I say, Fitz, what do you think of it?"

"You're a handsome rascal, Maurice," answered the Englishman, 
who had watched his young friend, amusement in his sober eyes. 
"Happily, there are no young women present."

"Go to! I'll lay odds that our hostess is under twenty-five."

"I meant young women of sixteen or seventeen. Women such as 
Madame have long since passed the uniform fever."

"Not when it has lace, my friend, court lace. Well, forward to 
the dining hall."

Both were rather disappointed to find that Madame would be 
absent until dinner. Fitzgerald could not tell exactly why he 
was disappointed, and he was angry with himself for the vague 
regret. Maurice, however, found consolation in the demure French 
maid who served them. Every time he smiled she made a courtesy, 
and every time she left the room Maurice nudged Fitzgerald.

"Smile, confound you, smile!" he whispered. "There's never a 
maid but has her store of gossip, and gossip is information."

"Pshaw!" said Fitzgerald, helping himself to cold ham and 
chicken.

"Wine, Messieurs?" asked the maid.

"Ah, then Madame offers the cellars?" said Maurice.

"Yes, Messieurs. There is chambertin, champagne, chablis, 
tokayer and sherry."

"Bring us some chambertin, then."

"Oui, Messieurs."

"Hurry along, my Hebe," said Maurice.

The maid was not on familiar terms with the classics, but she 
told the butler in the pantry that the smooth-faced one made a 
charming Captain.

"Keep your eyes open," grumbled the butler; "he'll be kissing 
you next."

"He might do worse," was the retort. Even maids have their 
mirrors, and hers told a pretty story. When she returned with 
the wine she asked: "And shall I pour it, Messieurs?"

"No one else shall," declared Maurice. "When is the duchess to 
arrive?"

"I do not know, Monsieur," stepping in between the chairs and 
filling the glasses with the ruby liquid.

"Who is Madame Sylvia Amerbach?"

"Madame Sylvia Amerbach," placing the bottle on the table and 
going to the sideboard. She returned with a box of "Khedives."

Fitzgerald laughed at Maurice's disconcertion.

"Where has Madame gone?"

"To the summer home of Countess Herzberg, who is to return with 
Madame."

"Oho!" cried Maurice, in English. "A countess! What do you say 
to that, my Englishman?"

"She is probably old and plain. Madame desires a chaperon."

"You forget that Madame desires nothing but those certificates. 
And the chaperon does not live who could keep an eye on Madame 
Sylvia Amerbach."

The mention of the certificates brought back all the 
Englishman's discomfort, and he emptied his glass of wine not as 
a lover of good wine should. Soon they rose from the table. The 
maid ran to the door and held it open. Fitzgerald hurried 
through, but Maurice lingered a moment. He put his hand under 
the porcelain chin and looked into the china-blue eyes. 
Fitzgerald turned.

"What was that noise?" he asked, as Maurice shouldered him along 
the hall.

"What noise?"

Madame came back to the chateau at five, and dinner was 
announced at eight. The Countess Herzberg was young and pretty, 
the possessor of a beautiful mouth and a charming smile. The 
Colonel did the honors at the table. Maurice almost fancied 
himself in Vienna, the setting of the dining room was so perfect.
The entire room was paneled in walnut. On the mantel over the 
great fireplace stood silver candlesticks with wax tapers. The 
candlestick in the center of the table was composed of twelve 
branches. The cuisine was delectable, the wines delicious. 
Madame and the countess were in evening dress. The Colonel was 
brimming with anecdote, the countess was witty, Madame was a 
sister to Aspasia.

Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled. It 
was very irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve 
to alter this fact. What was the meaning of it? What lay 
underneath?

Sometimes he caught Fitzgerald in the act of staring at Madame 
when her attention was otherwise engaged; at other times he saw 
that Madame was returning this cursory investigation. There was, 
however, altogether a different meaning in these surreptitious 
glances. In the one there were interest, doubt, admiration; in 
the other, cold calculation. At no time did the conversation 
touch politics, and the crown was a thousand miles away--if 
surface indications went for aught.

Finally the Colonel rose. "A toast--to Madame the duchess, since 
this is her very best wine!"

Maurice emptied his glass fast enough; but Fitzgerald lowered 
his eyes and made no movement to raise his glass. The pupils in 
Madame's eyes grew small.

"That is scarcely polite, Monsieur," she said.

"Madame," he replied gently, "my parole did not include toasts 
to her Highness. My friend loves wine for its own sake, and 
seldom bothers his head about the toast as long as the wine is 
good. Permit me to withdraw the duchess and substitute yourself."

"Do so, if it will please you. In truth, it was bad taste in you,
count, to suggest it."

"It's all the same to me;" and the Colonel refilled his glass 
and nodded.

The countess smiled behind her fan, while Maurice felt the edge 
of the mild reproach which had been administered to him.

"I plead guilty to the impeachment. It was very wrong. Far from 
it that I should drink to the health of the Philistines. Madame 
the countess was beating me down with her eyes, and I did not 
think."

"I was not even looking at you!" declared the countess, blushing.

The incident was soon forgotten; and at length Madame and the 
countess rose.

Said the first: "We will leave you gentlemen to your cigars; and 
when they have ceased to interest you, you will find us in the 
music room."

"And you will sing?" said Maurice to the countess.

"If you wish." She was almost beautiful when she smiled, and she 
smiled on Maurice.

"I confess," said he, "that being a prisoner, under certain 
circumstances, is a fine life."

"What wicked eyes he has," said the countess, as she and Madame 
entered the music room.

"Do not look into them too often, my dear," was the rejoinder. 
"I have asked not other sacrifice than that you should occupy 
his attention and make him fall in love with you."

"Ah, Madame, that will be easy enough. But what is to prevent me 
from falling in love with him? He is very handsome."

"You are laughing!"

"Yes, I am laughing. It will be such an amusing adventure, a 
souvenir for my old age--and may my old age forget me."

The men lit their cigars and smoked in silence.

"Colonel," said Maurice at last, "will you kindly tell me what 
all this means?"

"Never ask your host how old his wine is. If he is proud of it, 
he will tell you." He blew the smoke under the candle shades and 
watched it as it darted upward. "Don't you find it comfortable? 
I should."

"Conscience will not lie down at one's bidding."

"I understood that you were a diplomat?" The Colonel turned to 
Fitzgerald. "I hope that, when you are liberated, you will 
forget the manner in which you were brought here."

"I shall forget nothing," curtly.

"The devil! I can not fight you; I am too old."

Fitzgerald said nothing, and continued to play with his emptied 
wine-glass.

"The Princess Alexia," went on the Colonel, "has a bulldog. I 
have always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog 
was. The bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an 
Englishman."

This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence. 
The Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of 
Maurice were anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was 
contemplating them both, shrewdly.

"Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine."

The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood 
before the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In 
the center of the room was a table littered with books, 
magazines and illustrated weeklies.

"Do you play chess, Monsieur?" said Madame to Fitzgerald.

"I do not."

"Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done."

Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He 
followed every move she made because he had never seen till now 
so round and shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped 
with pink filbert nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as 
might be. He, like Maurice, was pondering over the unusual 
position in which he found himself; but analysis of any sort was 
not his forte; so he soon forgot all save the delicate curve of 
Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple of her laughter, the 
abysmal gray of her eyes.

"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the countess, "what shall I sing 
to you?"

"To me?" said Maurice. "Something from Abt."

Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice 
rose in song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of 
the window into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed 
the curtain of darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her 
head and looked at him. It was not only a handsome face she saw, 
but one that carried the mark of refinement. . . . Maurice was 
thinking of the lonely princess and her grave dark eyes. He 
possessed none of that power from which princes derive benefits; 
what could he do? And why should he interest himself in a woman 
who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even 
a friend? He smiled.

If Fitzgerald was not adept at analysis, he was. Nothing ever 
entered his mind or heart that he could not separate and define. 
It was strange; it was almost laughable; to have fenced as long 
and adroitly as he had fenced, and then to be disarmed by one 
who did not even understand the foils! Surrender? Why not? . . . 
By and by his gaze traveled to the chess players. There was 
another game than chess being played there, though kings and 
queens and knights and bishops were still the sum of it.

"Are you so very far away, then?" The song had ceased; the 
countess was looking at him curiously.

"Thank you," he said; "indeed, you had taken me out of myself."

"Do you like chestnuts?" she asked suddenly.

"I am very fond of them."

"Then I shall fetch some." It occurred to her that the room was 
very warm; she wanted a breath of air--alone.

"Checkmate!" cried the Colonel, joyfully.

"Do you begin to understand?" asked Madame.

"A little," admitted Fitzgerald, who did not wish to learn too 
quickly. "I like to watch the game."

"So do I," said Maurice, who had approached the table. "I should 
like to know what the game is, too."

Both Madame and the Colonel appeared to accept the statement and 
not the innuendo. Madame placed the figures on the board.

Maurice strolled over to the table and aimlessly glanced through 
the Vienna illustrated weeklies. He saw Franz Josef in 
characteristic poses, full-page engravings of the military 
maneuvers and reproductions of the notable paintings. He picked 
up an issue dated June. A portrait of the new Austrian 
ambassador to France attracted his attention. He turned the leaf.
What he saw on the following page caused him to widen his eyes 
and let slip an ejaculation loud enough to be heard by the chess 
players. Madame seemed on the point of rising. Maurice did not 
lower his eyes nor Madame hers.

"Checkmate in three moves, Madame!" exclaimed the Colonel; "it 
is wonderful."

"What's the matter, Maurice?" asked Fitzgerald.

"Jack, I am a ruined man."

"How? What?" nearly upsetting the board.

"I just this moment remember that I left my gas burning at the 
hotel, and it is extra."

The Colonel and Fitzgerald lay back in their chairs and roared 
with laughter.

But Madame did not even smile.




CHAPTER X


BEING OF LONG RIDES, MAIDS, KISSES AND MESSAGES

Fitzgerald was first into bed that night.

"I want to finish this cigar, Jack," said Maurice, who wished to 
be alone with his thoughts. He sat in the chair by the window 
and lifted his feet to the sill. The night wind was warm and 
odorous. He had found a clue, but through what labyrinth would 
it lead him? A strange adventure, indeed; so strange that he was 
of half a mind that he dreamed. Prisoners. . . . Why? And these 
two women alone in this old chateau, a house party. There lay 
below all this some deep design.

Should he warn his friend? Indeed, as yet, of what had he to 
warn him? To discover Madame to Fitzgerald would be to close the 
entrance to this labyrinth which he desired to explore. How 
would Madame act, now that she knew he possessed her secret? 
Into many channels he passed, but all these were blind, and led 
him to no end. Madame had a purpose; to discover what this 
purpose was Fitzgerald must remain in ignorance. What a woman! 
She resembled one of those fabulous creatures of medieval days. 
And why was the countess on the scene, and what was her part in 
this invisible game?

He finished his cigar and lit another; but the second cigar 
solved no more than the first. Mademoiselle of the Veil! He knew 
now what she meant; having asked her to lift her veil, she had 
said, "Something terrible would happen." At last he, too, sought 
bed, but he did not sleep so soundly as did Fitzgerald.

Ten days of this charming captivity passed; there was a thicker 
carpet of leaves on the ground, and new distances began to show 
mistily through the dismantling forest. But there were no 
changes at the Red Chateau--no outward changes. It might, in 
truth, have been a house party but for the prowling troopers and 
the continual grumbling of the Englishman when alone with 
Maurice.

During the day they hunted or took long rides into the interior 
of the duchy. Both women possessed a fine skill in the saddle. 
In the evenings there were tourneys at chess, games and music.

Each night Fitzgerald learned a little more about chess and a 
little less about woman. The countess, airy and delicate as a 
verse of Voiture's, bent all her powers (and these were not 
inconsiderable) toward the subjugation of Maurice. She laughed, 
she sang, she fascinated. She had the ability to amuse hour 
after hour. She offered vague promises with her eyes, and 
refused them with her lips. Maurice, who was never impregnable 
under the fire of feminine artillery, was at times half in love 
with her; but his suspicions, always near the surface, saved him.

Sometimes he caught her hand and retained it over long; and once,
when he kissed it, there was no rebuke. Again, when she sang, 
he would lean so close that she could feel his breath on her 
cheek, and her fingers would stumble into discords. Often she 
would suddenly rise from the piano and walk swiftly from the 
room, through the halls, into the park, where, though he 
followed, he never could find her. One day she and Madame 
returned from a walk in the forest, the one with high color and 
brilliant eyes, the other impassive as ice. Now, all these 
things did not escape Maurice, but he could not piece them 
together with any result.

On the morning of the tenth day the two prisoners came down to 
breakfast, wondering how much longer this house party was going 
to last.

"George! I wish I had a pipe," said Maurice.

"So do I," Fitzgerald echoed glumly. "I am tired of cigars and 
weary of those eternal cigarettes. How the deuce are we going to 
get out of this?"

"What's your hurry? We're having a good time."

"That's the trouble. Hang the duchess!"

"Hang her and welcome. But why do you complain to me and not to 
Madame? Are you afraid of her? Does she possess, then, what is 
called tamer's magnetism? O, my lion, if only you would roar a 
bit more at her and less at me!"

"I don't know what she possesses; but I do know that I'd give a 
deal to be out of this."

"Is the chambermaid idea bothering you?"

"No, Maurice, it is not the chambermaid. I feel oppressed by 
something which I can not define."

"Maybe you are not used to tokay forty years old?"

"Wine has nothing to do with it."

He was so serious that Maurice dropped his jesting tone. "By the 
way," he said, "do you sleep soundly?"

"No. Every night I am awakened by the noise of a horse entering 
the court-yard."

"So am I. Moreover, Madame seems to be troubled with the same 
sleeplessness.

"Madame?"

"Yes. She is so troubled with sleeplessness that nothing will 
quiet her but the sight of the man who rides the horse: all of 
which is to say that a courier arrives each night with 
dispatches from Bleiberg. Now, to tell the truth, the courier 
does not keep me awake half so much as the thought of who is 
eating three meals a day at the end of the east corridor on the 
third floor. But there are Madame and the countess; we have kept 
them waiting,"

"Good morning," said Madame, smiling as they came up. "And how 
have you slept?"

"Nothing wakes me but the roll of the drum or thunder," answered 
Fitzgerald diffidently.

"I dream of horses," said Maurice carelessly.

"Bon jour, M. le Capitaine!" cried the countess. Then she added 
with a light laugh: "Come, let me try you. Portons armes! 
Presentons armes! --How beautifully you do it!--Par le flanc 
gauche! En avant--marche!"

Maurice swung, clicked his heels and, with a covert glance at 
Madame, led the way into the dining hall, whistling, "Behold the 
saber of my father!"

"Ah, I do not see the Colonel," said Maurice; for night and day 
the old soldier had been with them.

"He has gone to Brunnstadt," said Madame, "but will return this 
evening."

The breakfast was short and merry. Words passed across the table 
that were as crisp as the toast. Maurice remarked the advent of 
two liveried servants, stolid Germans by the way, who, as he 
afterward found, did not understand French.

"So the Colonel has gone to Brunnstadt?" said Maurice; which was 
a long way of asking why the Colonel had gone to Brunnstadt.

"Yes," said Madame; "he has gone to consult Madame the duchess 
to see what shall be done to you, Monsieur."

"To be done to me?" ignoring the challenge in her eyes.

"Yes. You must not forget that you promised me your sword, and I 
have taken the liberty of presenting it to her Highness."

"I remember nothing about promising my sword," said Maurice, 
gazing ceiling-ward.

"What! There was a mental reservation?"

"No, Madame. I remember my words only too well. I said that I 
loved adventure, thoughtless youth that I was, and that I was 
easy to be found. Which is all true, and part proved, since I am 
here."

"Still, the uniform fits you exceedingly well. The hussars hold 
a high place at court."

"Madame," replied he pleasantly, "I appreciate the honor, but at 
present my sword and fealty are sworn to my own country. And 
besides, I have no desire to take part in the petty squabble 
between this country and the kingdom."

The forecast of a storm lay in Madame's gray eyes.

"Eh? You wish to placate me, Madame?" thought Maurice.

"He is right, Madame," interposed the countess. "But away with 
politics! It spoils all it touches."

"And away with the duchess, too," put in Fitzgerald, reaching 
for a bunch of yellow grapes. "With all due respect to your 
cause and beliefs, Madame the duchess, your mistress, is a 
bugbear to me. The very sound of the title arouses in my heart 
all that is antagonistic."

"You have not seen her Highness, Monsieur," said Madame, quietly.
"Perhaps she is all that is desirable. She is known to be rich, 
her will is paramount to all others. When she sets her heart on 
a thing she leaves no stone unturned until she procures it. And, 
countess, do they not say of her that she possesses something--
an attribute--more dangerous than beauty--fascination?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Madame the duchess," said Maurice dryly, "has a stanch advocate 
in you, Madame."

"It is not unnatural."

"Be that as it may," said Fitzgerald, "she is mine enemy."

"Love your enemies, says the Book," was the interposition of the 
countess, who stole a sly glance at Maurice which he did not see.

"That would not be difficult--in some cases," replied the 
Englishman.

"Ah, come," thought Maurice, "my friend is beginning to pick up 
his lines." Aloud he said: "Madame, will you confer a favor on 
me by permitting me to inform my superior in Vienna of my 
whereabouts?"

"No, Monsieur; prisoners are not allowed to communicate with the 
outside world. Are you not enjoying yourself? Is not everything 
being done for your material comfort? What complaint have you to 
offer?"

"A gilded cage is no less a cage."

"It is but temporary. The duchess has commanded that you be held 
until it is her pleasure to come to the chateau. O, Monsieur, 
where is your gallantry? Here the countess and I have done so 
much to amuse you, and you speak of a gilded cage!"

"Pretty bird! pretty bird!" said Maurice, in a piping voice, 
"will it have some caraway?"

Madame laughed. "Well, I hear the grooms leading the horses 
under the porte coch,re. Go, then, for the morning ride. I am 
sorry that I can not accompany you. I have some letters to write."

Fitzgerald curled his mustache. "I'll forswear the ride myself. 
I was reading a good book last night; I'll finish it, and keep 
Madame company."

Madame trifled with the toast crumbs. Fitzgerald's profound 
dissimulation caused a smile to cross Maurice's lips.

"Come, countess," said Maurice, gaily; "we'll take the ride 
together, since Madame has to write and my lord to read."

"Five minutes until I dress," replied the countess, and she sped 
away.

"What a beautiful girl!" said Madame, fondly. "Poor dear! Her 
life has not been a bed of roses."

"No?" said Maurice, while Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows 
inquiringly.

"No. She was formerly a maid of honor to her Highness. She made 
an unhappy marriage."

"And where is the count?" asked Fitzgerald in surprise. He shot 
a glance of dismay at Maurice, who, translating it, smiled.

"He is dead."

Fitzgerald looked relieved.

"What a fine thing it is," said Maurice, rising, "to be a man 
and wed where and how you will!" He withdrew to the main hall to 
don his cap and spurs. As he stooped to strap the latter, he saw 
a sheet of paper, crinkled by recent dampness, lying on the 
floor. He picked it up--and read it.

     "The plan you suggest is worthy of you, Madame. The
     Englishman is fair game, being a common enemy. Let
     us gain our ends through the heart, since his purse
     is impregnable to assaults. But the countess? Why not
     the pantry maid, since the other is an American? They
     lack discrimination. The king grows weaker every 
     day. Nothing was found in the Englishman's rooms. I
     fear that the consols are in the safe at the British
     legation. As usual, a courier will arrive each night.
                           B."



"Why--not--the--pantry maid?" Maurice drawled. "That is flippant."
He read the message again. "What plan?" Suddenly he struck his 
thigh. "By George, so that is it, eh, Madame? So that is why we 
are so comfortably lodged here? I am in the way, and you bait 
the hook with a countess! Since the purse will not lead the way, 
the heart, eh? Certainly I shall tell my lord the Englishman all 
about his hostess when I return from the ride. Decidedly you are 
clever. O, how careless! Not even in cipher, so that he who 
reads may run. And who is B.?--Beauvais! Something told me that 
this man had a hand in the affair. I remember the look he gave 
me. A traitor, too.

"Hang my memory, which seems always to forget what I wish to 
remember and remember what I wish to forget! Where have I met 
this man Beauvais before? Ah, the countess!" He thrust the 
message into his breast. "Evidently Madame thinks I am worth 
consideration; uncommonly pretty bait. Shall I let the play run 
on, or shall I tell her? Ah! you have two minutes to spare," he 
said, as she approached. "But you do not need them," throwing a 
deal of admiration into his glance.

"It does not take me long to dress--on occasions."

"A compliment to me?" he said.

"If you will accept it."

It was an exhilarating morning, full of forest perfumes. Through 
the haze the mountains glittered like huge emeralds and 
amethysts.

"What a day!" said the countess, as they galloped away.

"Aye, for plots and war and love!"

"For plots and war?" demurely. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair 
as yellow as the silk of corn.

"Well, then, for love." He shortened his rein. "A propos, have 
you ever been in love, countess?"

"I? What a question!"

"Have you?"

"N--no! Let us talk of plots and war," gazing across the valley.

"No; let us talk of love. I am in love, and one afflicted that 
way wishes a confidant. I appoint you mine."

"Some rosy-cheeked peasant girl?" laughing.

"Perhaps. Perhaps it's only a--a pantry maid," with a sly look 
from the corner of his eyes. Evidently she had not heard. She 
was still laughing. "I have heard of hermits falling in love 
with stars, and have laughed. Now I am in the same predicament. 
I love a star--"

"Operatic? To be sure! Mademoiselle Lenormand of the Royal 
Vienna is in Bleiberg. How she keeps her age!"

It was Maurice's turn to laugh.

"And that is why you came to Bleiberg! Ah, these opera singers, 
had I my way, they should all be aged and homely."

"Countess, you are pulling the bit too hard," said he. "I 
noticed yesterday that your horse has a very tender mouth."

"Thank you." She slacked the rein. "He was going too close to 
the ditch. You were saying--"

"No, it was you who were saying that all actresses should be 
aged and homely. But it is not Mademoiselle Lenormand, it is not 
the peasant, nor the pantry maid."

This time she looked up quickly.

"The woman I love is too far away, so I am going to give up 
thinking of her. Countess, I made a peculiar discovery this 
morning."

"A discovery, Monsieur? What is it?"

"Do you see that fork in the road, a mile away? When we reach it 
and turn I'll tell you what it is. If I told you now it might 
spoil the ride. What a day, truly! How clear everything is! And 
the air is like wine." He drew in deep breaths.

"Let us hurry and reach the fork in the road; my curiosity is 
stifling me."

Maurice did not laugh as she expected he would. As she observed 
the thoughtful frown between his brows, a shiver of dread ran 
through her. It did not take long to cover the intervening mile. 
They turned, and the horses fell into a quick step.

"Now, Monsieur; please!"

After all . . . But he quelled the gentle tremor in his heart. A 
month ago, had he known her, he might now have told her 
altogether a different story. He could see that she had not an 
inkling of what was to come (for he had determined to tell her); 
and he vaguely wondered if he should bring humiliation to the 
dainty creature. It would be like nicking a porcelain cup. Her 
brows were arched inquisitively and her lips puckered. . . .He 
had had a narrow escape.

He drew the message from his breast, leaned across and handed it 
to her.

"Why, what is this, Monsieur?"

"Read it and see" And he busied himself with the tangled mane of 
his horse. When they had ridden several yards, he heard her 
voice.

"Here, Monsieur" The hand was extended, but the face was averted.

"Countess, you are too charming a woman to lend yourself to such 
schemes."

There was no reply.

"Did you not volunteer to make me fall in love with you to keep 
me from interfering with Madame's plans?" It was brutal, but he 
was compelled to say it.

Silence.

"Did you not?" he persisted. "When one writes such messages as 
these, one should use an intricate cipher. Had I been other than 
a prisoner, what I have done would not be the act of a gentleman.
But I am a prisoner; I must defend myself. To rob a man through 
his love! And such a man! He is a very infant in the hands of a 
woman. He has been a soldier all his life. All women to him are 
little less than angels; he knows nothing of their treachery, 
their deceit, their false smiles. It will be an easy victory, or 
rather it would have been, for I shall do my best to prevent it. 
Madame is not unknown to me; I have been waiting to see what 
meant this peculiar house party.

"Perhaps I am now too late. Madame distrusts me. I dare say she 
has her reasons. She went to you. You were to occupy me. I was 
young, I liked the society of women, I was gay and careless. She 
has decked me out as one would deck a monkey (and doubtless she 
calls me one behind my back), and has offered me a sword to play 
with.

"In America, when a man puts a sword in his hand, it is to kill 
somebody. Here--aye, all over the continent, for that matter--
swords are baubles for young nobles, used to slash each other in 
love affairs. I respect and admire you; had I not done so, I 
should not have spoken. Countess, be frank with me, as frank as 
I have been with you; have I not guessed rightly?"

"Yes, Monsieur," her head bowed and her cheeks white. "Yes, yes! 
it was a miserable game. But I love Madame; I would sacrifice my 
pride and my heart for her, if need be."

"I can believe that."

"And believe me when I say that the moment I saw you, I knew 
that my conduct was going to be detestable. But I had given my 
promise. A woman has but little to offer to her country; I have 
offered my pride, and I am a proud woman, Monsieur. I am ashamed.
I am glad that you spoke, for it was becoming unbearable to 
throw myself at a man whose heart I knew intuitively to be 
elsewhere." She raised her eyes, which were filled with a 
strange luster. "Will you forgive me, Monsieur?"

"With all my heart. For now I know that we shall be friends. You 
will be relieved of an odious part; for you are too handsome not 
to have in keeping some other heart besides your own."

He then began gaily to describe some of his humorous adventures, 
and continued in this vein till they arrived once more at the 
chateau. Sometimes the countess laughed, but he could see that 
her sprightliness was gone. When they came under the porte 
cochere he sprang from his horse and assisted her to dismount; 
and he did not relinquish her hand till he had given it a 
friendly pressure. She stood motionless on the steps, centered a 
look on him which he failed to interpret, then ran swiftly into 
the hall, thence to her room, the door of which she bolted.

"It would not be difficult," he mused, communing with the 
thought which had come to him. "It would be something real, and 
not a chimera."

He turned over the horses to the grooms, and went in search of 
Fitzgerald to inform him of his discovery; but the Englishman 
was nowhere to be found. Neither was Madame. Being thirsty, he 
proceeded to the dining hall. Fadette, the maid, was laying the 
silver.

"Ah, the `pantry maid,'" he thought. "Good day, Fadette."

"Does Monsieur wish for something?"

"A glass of water. Thanks!"

She retreated and kept her eyes lowered.

"Fadette, you are charming. Has any one ever told you that?"

"O, Monsieur!" blushing.

"Have they?" lessening the distance between them.

"Sometimes," faintly. She could not withstand his glance, so she 
retired a few more steps, only to find herself up with the wall.

With a laugh he sprang forward and caught her face between his 
hands and imprinted a kiss on her left cheek. Suddenly she 
wrenched herself loose, uttered a frightened cry and fled down 
the pantryway.

"What's the matter with the girl?" he muttered aloud. "I wanted 
to ask her some questions."

"Ask them of me, Monsieur," said a voice from the doorway.

Maurice wheeled. It was Madame, but her face expressed nothing. 
He saw that he had been caught. The humor of the situation got 
the better of him, and he laughed. Madame ignored this unseemly 
hilarity.

"Monsieur, is this the way you return my kindness?"

"Permit me to apologize. As to your kindness, I have just 
discovered that it is of a most dangerous quality."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I could not kiss Madame the countess with the same 
sense of security as I could the-- pantry maid," bowing.

Just now Madame's face expressed a good deal. "Of what are you 
talking?" advancing a step.

"I had in mind what our friend, Colonel Beauvais, remarked in 
his recent dispatch: I know no discrimination. The fact is, I do.
I found the dispatch on the floor this morning. Allow me to 
return it to you. I have kept silent, Madame, because I did not 
know how to act."

"You have dared--?" her lips pressed and her eyes thunderous.

"To read it? Aye. I am a prisoner; it was in self-defense. 
Madame, you do me great honor. A countess! What consideration to 
the indiscriminate! Au revoir, then, till luncheon;" and he left 
the room, whistling--

Voici le sabre de mon pere!




CHAPTER XI


THE DENOUEMENT

At no time during the afternoon did Maurice find the opportunity 
to speak privately to Fitzgerald. Madame hovered about, chatting,
smiling and humming snatches of song. She seemed to have formed 
a sudden attachment for Maurice; that is to say, she could not 
bear to lose sight of him, not for the briefest moment.

He swallowed his chagrin, for he could but confess that it was 
sugar-coated. Madame had at last considered his case, and had 
labeled him dangerous. Somehow a man always likes to be properly 
valued. It re-establishes his good opinion of himself.

Well, well; however affectionate Madame might be, she could 
scarcely carry it beyond the threshold of his chamber, and he 
was determined to retire at an early hour. But he had many 
things to learn.

Fitzgerald was abandoned to the countess, who had still much 
color to regain. From time to time the Englishman looked over 
his shoulder to see what was going on between Madame and his 
friend, and so missed half of what the countess said.

"Come," thought Maurice, "it is time I made a play."

The blackberries were ripe along the stone walls which 
surrounded the chateau. Maurice wandered here and there, 
plucking what fruit he could find. Now and then he would offer a 
branch to Madame. At length, as though by previous arrangement 
with Madame, the countess led Fitzgerald around to the other 
side of the chateau, so that Madame and Maurice were alone. 
Immediately the smile, which had rested on her lips, vanished. 
Her companion was gazing mountainward, and cogitating. How fared 
those in Bleiberg?

"What a beautiful world it is!" said a low, soft voice close to 
his ear.

Maurice resumed his berry picking.

"What exquisite tints in the skies!" went on the voice; "what 
matchless color in the forests!"

Maurice plucked a berry, ate it, and smacked his lips. It was a 
good berry.

"But what a terrible thing it would be if one should die 
suddenly, or be thrown into a windowless dungeon, shut out from 
all these splendid reaches?"

Maurice plucked another berry, but he did not eat it. 
Instinctively he turned--and met a pair of eyes as hard and cold 
and gray as new steel.

"That," said he, "sounds like a threat."

"And if it were, Monsieur, and if it were?"

"If it were, I should say that you had discovered that I know 
too much. I suspected from the first; the picture merely 
confirmed my suspicions. I see now that it was thoughtless in me 
not to have told my friend; but it is not too late."

"And why, I ask, have I not suppressed you before this?"

"Till to-day, Madame, you had not given me your particular 
consideration." Then, as if the conversation was not interesting 
him, he returned to the berries. "There's a fine one there. It's 
a little high; but then!" He tiptoed, drew the branch from the 
wall, and snatched the luscious fruit. "Ah!"

"Monsieur, attend to me; the berries can wait."

"Madame, the life of a good blackberry is short."

"To begin with, you say that I did not show you consideration. 
Few princes have been shown like consideration."

"I was wrong. It is not every man that has a countess--and a 
pretty one, too!--thrown at his head."

Madame was temporarily silenced by this retort; it upset her 
calculations. She scrutinized the clean, smooth face, and she 
saw lines which had hitherto escaped her notice. She was at last 
convinced that she had to contend with a man, a man who had 
dealt with both men and women. How deep was he? Could honors, 
such as she could give, and money plumb the depths? . . . He was 
an American. She smiled the smile of duplicity.

"Monsieur," she said, "do you lack wealth?"

"Yes, I lack it; but that is not to say that I desire it."

"Perhaps it is honors you desire?"

"Honors? To what greater honor may I aspire than that which is 
written in my passports?"

"What is written in your passports?"

"That I am a citizen of the United States of America. It would 
not be good taste in me to accept honors save those that my 
country may choose to confer."

Again Madame found her foil turned aside. She began to lose 
patience. Her boot patted the sod. "Monsieur, since the countess 
is not high enough, since gold and honors have no charm, listen."

"I am listening, Madame."

"I permit you to witness the comic opera, but I shall allow no 
prompting from outsiders."

"Madame, do you expect me to sit calmly by and see my friend 
made a fool?" He spoke warmly and his eyes remained steadfast.

"Certainly that is what you shall do," coldly.

"Madame, you are a beautiful woman; heaven has endowed you with 
something more than beauty. Is it possible that the gods forgot 
to mix conscience in the mold?"

"Conscience? Royalty knows none."

"Ah, Madame, wait till you are royal."

"Take care. You have not felt my anger."

"I would rather that than your love."

She marveled at her patience.

"If you have no conscience, Madame, I have. I shall warn him. 
You shall not dishonor him if I can prevent it. You wish to win 
his love, and you have gauged the possibilities of it so 
accurately that you know you will have but to ask, be it his 
honor or his life. A far finer thing it would be for you to win 
your crown at the point of the sword. There would be a little 
glory in it then. But even then, the world would laugh at you. 
For you would be waging war against a lonely woman, a paralytic 
king, a prelate who is a man of peace. What resistance could 
these three offer?

"But to gain your ends by treachery and deceit, to rob a man of 
his brains and heart, laughing the while in your sleeve; to 
break his life and make him curse all women, from Eve to you and 
the mother who bore him! Ah, Madame, let me plead with you. Give 
him his liberty. Let him go back and complete the task imposed 
on him. Do not break his life, for life is more than a crown; do 
not compel him to sully his honor, for honor is more than life.

"Your cause is just, I will admit, but do not tarnish it by such 
detestable means. 'Tis true that a crown to me signifies nothing,
but life and honor are common to us both. With all his strength 
and courage, my friend is helpless. All his life he has been 
without the society of women. If he should love you--God help 
him! His love would be without calculation, without reason, 
blind and furious. Madame, do not destroy him."

Sometimes, in the passing, we are stopped by the sound of a 
voice. It is not the words it utters, nor the range nor tone. It 
is something indefinable, and, though we can not analyze it, we 
are willing to follow wherever it leads. Such a voice Maurice 
possessed, though he was totally ignorant of its power. But 
Madame, as she listened, felt its magic influence, and for a 
moment the spell rendered her mute.

"Monsieur, you have missed your vocation; you plead well, indeed.
Unfortunately, I can not hear; my ears are of wax. No, no! I 
have nourished these projects too long; they are a part of me. 
Laughed at, you say? Have I not been laughed at from one end of 
the continent to the other?" passionately. "It is my turn now, 
and woe to those who have dared to laugh. I shall sweep all 
obstacles away; nothing shall stop me. Mine the crown is, and 
mine it shall be. I am a woman, and I wished to avoid bloodshed. 
But not even that shall stay me; not even love!" Her bosom 
heaved, her hands were clenched, and her gray eyes flashed like 
troubled waters in the sunlight.

"Madame, if you love him--"

"Well?" proudly.

"No, I am wrong. If you loved him you would prize above all else 
this honor of which you intend to rob him."

"I brought you here not to discuss whether I am right or wrong. 
Look about you."

Maurice was somewhat troubled to discover several troopers 
lounging about just out of earshot. They were so arranged as to 
prevent egress from the park. He looked thoughtfully at the wall.
It was eight feet in height.

Madame saw the look, and said, "Corporal!"

There was a noise on the other side of the wall, and presently a 
head bobbed up.

"Madame?" inquired the head.

"Nothing. I wished to know if you were at your post." She turned 
to Maurice, who was puzzled to know what all this was preamble 
to. "Monsieur Carewe, I never forget details. I had an idea that 
when I submitted my proposals to you, you might be tempted to 
break your parole."

Maurice gnawed his lip. "Proceed, Madame."

"There are only two. If you do not promise here and now in no 
way to interfere with my plans, these troopers will convey you 
to Brunnstadt, where you will be kept in confinement until the 
succession to the throne is decided one way or the other. The 
other proposal is, if you promise --and I have faith in your 
word--the situation will continue the same as at present. Choose,
Monsieur. Which is it to be?"

The devil gleamed in his eyes. He remained silent.

"Well! Well!" impatiently.

"I accept the alternative," with bad grace. "If I made a dash--"

"You would be shot; those were my orders."

"And if I went to prison--"

"You would miss what you call the comic opera, but which to me 
is all there is in life. You say that I have read your friend 
well. That is true. Do you think that it is easy for me to 
lessen myself in my own eyes? No woman lives who is prouder than 
I. Remember, you are not to hint at what I propose to do, nor 
who I am. See! It is all because you read something which was 
not intended for your eyes. Be my friend, or be my enemy, it is 
a matter of indifference to me. You have only yourself to blame. 
Had you gone about your business and not intruded where you were 
not wanted, neither you nor your friend would be here. No 
interference from you, Monsieur; that is the understanding." She 
raised her hand and made a sign, and the troopers took 
themselves off. "Now you may go--to the countess, if you wish; 
though I dare say that she will not find you in the best of 
tempers."

"I dare say she won't," said Maurice.



Fitzgerald sat by a window in the music room. He had resurrected 
from no one knew where a clay with a broken stem. There was a 
thoughtful cast to his countenance, and he puffed away, 
blissfully unconscious of, or indifferent to, the close 
proximity of the velvet curtains. A thrifty housewife, could she 
have seen the smoke rise and curl and lose itself in the folds 
above, would have experienced the ecstasy of anxiety and 
perturbation. But there was no thrifty housewife at the Red 
Chateau, nothing but dreams of conquest and revenge.

Twilight was gathering about, soft-footed and shadowful. Long 
reaches of violet and vermilion clouds pressed thickly on the 
western line of hills. The mists began to rise, changing from 
opal to sapphire. The fantastic melodies of wandering gypsy 
songs went throbbing through the room; rollicking gavots, 
Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes. As the music grew 
sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.

Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness 
returned and overwhelmed him. They marshaled past, thirteen in 
all; and there were glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains, 
men moving in the blur of smoke, long watches in the night. 
Thirteen years in God-forsaken outposts, with never a sight of a 
woman's face, the sound of her voice, the swish of her gown, nor 
a touch of the spell which radiates from her presence.

He had never made friends. Others had come up to him and passed 
him, and had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt 
of the cold, the heat, the watchfulness. He had made his bed; he 
was too much his father's son to whine because it was hard. 
Often he used to think how a few words, from a pride humbled, 
would have removed the barrier. But the words never came, nor 
was the pride ever humbled.

Out of all the thirteen years he could remember only six months 
of pleasure. He had been transferred temporarily to Calcutta, 
where his Colonel, who had received secret information 
concerning him, had treated him like a gentleman, and had 
employed him as regimental interpreter, for he spoke French and 
German and a smattering of Indian tongues. During his lonely 
hours he had studied, for he knew that some day he would be 
called upon to administer a vast fortune. . . . He laid the pipe 
on the sill, rested his elbows beside it, and dropped his chin 
in his hands. What a fool he had been to waste the best years of 
his life! His father would have opened to him a boundless career;
he would have seen the world under the guidance of a master 
hand. And here he was to-day, the possessor of millions, a 
beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a wanderer from place to 
place.

The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the 
memories which it would arouse would be too bitter. . . . The 
shade of Beethoven touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn,
Chopin. But he was thinking only of his loneliness, and the 
marvelous touch of the hands which evoked the great spirits was 
lost upon him.

Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners. He had still 
much good humor to recover. He pulled at his lips, and wondered 
from time to time what was going on in Fitzgerald's head. Poor 
devil! he thought; could he resist this woman whose 
accomplishments were so varied that at one moment she could 
overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to some 
strolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could 
entertain for her nothing but admiration, what hope was there 
for the Englishman? What a woman! She savored of three hundred 
years off. To plan by herself, to arrange the minutest detail, 
and above all to wait patiently! Patience has never been the 
attribute of a woman of power; Madame possessed both patience 
and power.

The countess was seated in another dark corner. Suddenly she 
arose and said, in a voice blended with great trouble and 
impatience: "For pity's sake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play 
something lively; I am sad."

The music stopped, but presently began again. Maurice leaned 
forward. Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise. He laughed 
silently. He was in Madame's thoughts. It struck him, however, 
that the notes had a defiant ring.

"Lights!" called Madame, rising from the stool.

Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired. Maurice, 
when his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the 
three faces. Madame's was radiant. Fitzgerald's was a mixture--a 
comical mixture--of content and enjoyment, but the countess's 
was as colorless as the wax in the candlesticks. He asked 
himself what other task she had to perform that she should take 
so long to recover her roses. Had the knowledge of her recent 
humiliation been too much for her?

She was speaking to him. "Monsieur, will you walk with me in the 
park? I am faint."

"Are you ill, countess?" asked Madame, coming up and placing her 
hand under the soft round chin of the other and striving to read 
her eyes.

"Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive 
me." When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice:
"Monsieur, I have brought you here to tell you something. I 
fear that your friend is lost, for you can do nothing."

"Not even if I break my word?" he asked.

"It would do no good."

"Why?"

"It is too late," lowly. "I have been Madame's understudy too 
long not to read. Forgive me. I was to keep you apart; I have 
done so. The evil can not now be repaired. Your hope is that 
Madame has not fully considered his pride."

"Has she any regard for him?"

"Sentiment?--love?" She uttered a short, incredulous laugh. 
"Madame has brain, not heart. Could a woman with a heart plan as 
she plans?"

"Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of--"

"Monsieur, do not be unkind. I have asked your forgiveness. Let 
us not talk; let us be silent and listen to the night;" and she 
leaned over the terrace balustrade.

Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed 
hair blew across his nostrils.	 . . . The princess was at best a 
dream. It was not likely that he ever would speak to her again. 
The princess was a poem, unlettered and unrhymed. But here, 
close to him, was a bit of beautiful material prose. The hair 
again blew out toward him and he moved his lips. She heard the 
vague sound and lifted her head.

Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the 
stables. There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.




CHAPTER XII


WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS

Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's 
departure. When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said 
nothing, but pulled all the quicker at his clay. He wondered at 
the desire which suddenly manifested itself. Fly? Why should he 
fly? The beat of his pulse answered him. . . . What a fine thing 
it was to feel the presence of a woman--a woman like this! What 
a fine thing always to experience the content derived from her 
nearness!

He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was 
nothing at all but a sense of gratefulness. In the dreary 
picture of his life there was now an illumined corner. He had 
ceased to blame her; she was doing for her country what he, did 
necessity so will, would do for his. And after all, he could not 
war against a woman--a woman like this. His innate chivalry was 
too deep-rooted.

How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed 
him night and day. Once he had been on the verge of sounding 
Maurice in regard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in 
femininities; but this would have been an acknowledgment of his 
ignorance, and pride closed his mouth. It was all impossible, 
but then, why should he return to his loneliness without 
attempting to find some one to share it with him? The king was 
safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was at ease 
in that direction. He needed not love, he thought, so much as 
sympathy. . . . Sympathy. He turned over the word in his mind as 
a gem merchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel. Sympathy;
it was the key to all he desired --woman's sympathy. There was 
nothing but ash in the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to 
puff.

Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor 
chords. She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his 
voice, to know and measure its emotion. At times she turned her 
head and shot a sly glance at him as he sat there musing. There 
was a wrinkle of contempt and amusement lurking at the corners 
of her eyes. Had Maurice been there he would have seen it. 
Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until doomsday, and 
never have seen else than their gray fathoms. Minute after 
minute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to 
break the monotony. She was not sure that the countess could 
hold Maurice very long.

"Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, in a soft key.

He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill. "Frankly, I 
was thinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners 
here." He told the lie rather diffidently.

"Not even forgiveness?" The lids of the gray eyes drooped and 
the music ceased.

"Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it is only 
your mistress I can not forgive. On the contrary, there is much 
to thank you for."

"Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with 
her Highness's wishes."

He moved uneasily. "It is her will, not yours."

"Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of 
Madame the duchess." She rose and moved silently to the window 
and peered out. He thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not.
She was endeavoring to see where Maurice and the countess were.

"Madame, shall I tell you a secret?"

"A secret? Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.

"This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen 
years."

"Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but 
of tones.

"Yes."

And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her 
all about his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings. 
Each sentence was a knife placed in her hands; and as she 
contemplated his honest face which could conceal nothing, his 
earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame was conscious of a 
vague distrust of herself. If only he had offered to fight, she 
thought. But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all his 
weapons of defense.

"Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.

He smiled.

"Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is 
antagonistic to you?"

"To me you represent only a beautiful woman."

"Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend."

"He is a good teacher. He is one of those men whom I admire. 
Women have never mastered him. He knows so much about them."

"Yes?" a flicker in her eyes.

"Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart. He is a rare man 
who, having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart." He 
picked up the pipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill. "As 
for me, I know nothing of women, save what I have read in books, 
and save that I have been too long without them."

"And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to 
love?" To a man less guileless, this question would not have 
been in good taste.

Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.

"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in 
your life?"

"Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the 
candles, strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, 
so steadfastly, that she could not resist. She was annoyed.

"Tell me about her."

"My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me."

"I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was 
without conscience; she had only smothered it. "Come; is she 
beautiful?"

"Yes." These questions disturbed him.

"Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is 
rich?"

"That does not matter; I am." He was wishing that Maurice would 
hurry back; the desire to fly was returning.

"And she rejected you and sent you to the army?"

"She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the 
presumption to ask her."

"A faint heart, they say--"

"My heart is not faint; it is my tongue." He rose and wandered 
about the room. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head 
like wine.

"Monsieur," she said, "is it possible that you have succumbed to 
the charms of Madame the countess?"

He laughed. "One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving 
it."

"Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!" and Madame laughed. "If it were the 
countess I could aid you."

"Love is not merchandise, to traffic with."

Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is 
beaten down by a tyro's stroke.

"Eh, bien, since it is not the countess--"

He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and 
moved to the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face 
caused her to shiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning, 
but she knew that the shiver was not unmixed with fear.

"Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!" he cried.

"Monsieur, you forget yourself," for the moment forgetting her part.

"Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you! 
You know that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years? 
They are well wasted, in the end to love a woman like you."

Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he 
had seized them.

"Monsieur, release me." She struggled futilely.

"I love you." He began to draw her from behind the chair.

"Monsieur, Monsieur!" she, cried, genuinely alarmed; "do not 
forget that you are a gentleman."

"I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves."

Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be 
subdued by angry words.

"Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by 
forcing me into your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are 
hurting me."

He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and 
quickly. But for her it was a respite. She had been too 
precipitate. She brought together the subtle forces of her mind. 
She could gain nothing by force; she must use cunning. To hold 
him at arm's length, and yet to hold him, was her desire. She 
had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All at once the 
flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier's 
daughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this 
man was doubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She 
read in his eyes that a moment more and he had kissed her, a 
thing no man save her father had ever done.

"O, Monsieur," she said lightly, "you soldiers are such forward 
lovers! You have not even asked me if I love you." He made a 
move to regain her hands. "No, no!" darting behind the chair. 
"You must not take my hands; you do not realize how strong you 
are. I am not sure that my heart responds to yours."

"Tell me, what must I do?" leaning across the chair.

"You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or 
not at all. What a whirlwind you are!"

"I would to heaven," with a gesture indicative of despair, "that 
you had kept me behind bars and closed doors." He dropped his 
hands from the chair and sought the window, leaning his arms 
against the central frame.

Madame had fully recovered her composure. She saw her way to the 
end.

"It is true," she said, "that I do not love you, but it is also 
true that I am not indifferent to you. What proof have I that 
you really love me? None, save your declaration; and that is not 
sufficient for a woman such as I am. Shall I place my life in 
your hands for better or for worse, simply because you say you 
love me?"

"My love does not reason, Madame."

She passed over this stroke. "I do not know you; it is not less 
than natural for me to doubt you. What proof have I that your 
declaration of love is not a scheme to while away your captivity 
at my expense? My heart is not one to be taken by storm. There 
is only one road to my affections; it is narrow. Other men have 
made love to me, but they have hesitated to enter upon this self-
same road."

"Love that demands conditions? I have asked none."

Madame blushed. "A man offers love; a woman confers it."

"And what is this narrow road called which leads to your 
affections? Is your heart a citadel?"

"It is called sacrifice. Those who dwell in my heart, which you 
call a citadel, enter by that road."

"Sacrifice?" Fervor lighted his face again. "Do you wish my 
fortune? It is yours. My life? It is yours. Do you wish me to 
lead the army of the duchess into Bleiberg? It shall be done. 
Sacrifice? I have sacrificed the best years of youth for nothing;
my life has been made up of sacrifices."

"Monsieur, if I promised to listen to you here-after, if I 
promised a heart that has never known the love of man, if I 
promised lips that have never known the lips of any man save my 
father--" She moved away from the chair, within an arm's length 
of him. "If I promised all these without reservation, would you 
aid me to give back to the duchess her own?"

Instantly her arms were pinioned to her sides, and he had drawn 
her so close that she could feel his heart beat against her own.

"Have no fear," he said. The voice was unfamiliar to her ears. 
"I shall not kiss you. Let me look into your eyes, Madame, your 
eyes, and read the lie which is written there. My fortune and my 
life are not enough. Keep your love, Madame; I have no wish to 
purchase it. What! if I surrender my honor it is agreed that you 
surrender yours? A love such as mine requires a wife. You would 
have me break my word to the dead and to the living, and you 
expect me to believe in your promises! Faugh!" He pushed her 
from him, and resumed his stand by the window.

The hate of a thousand ancestors surged into her heart, and she 
would have liked to kill him. Mistress! He had dared. He had 
dared to speak to her as no other man living or dead had dared. 
And he lived. All that was tigerish in her soul rose to the 
surface; only the thought of the glittering goal stayed the 
outburst. She had yet one weapon. A minute went by, still 
another; silence. A hand was laid tremblingly on his arm.

"Forgive me! I was wrong. Love me, love me, if you must. Keep 
your honor; love me without conditions. I--" She stumbled into 
the chair, covered her eyes and fell to weeping.

Fitzgerald, dumfounded and dismayed, looked. down at the 
beautiful head. He could fight angry words, tempests of wrath--
but tears, a woman's tears, the tears of the woman he loved!

"Madame," he said gently, "do you love me?"

No answer.

"Madame, for God's sake, do not weep! Do you love me? If you 
love me--if you love me--"

She sprang to her feet. Once again she experienced that shiver; 
again her conscience stirred.

"I do not know," she said. "But this I may say: your honor, 
which you hold above the price of a woman's love, will be the 
cause of bloodshed. Mothers and wives and sisters will execrate 
your name, brave men will be sacrificed needlessly. What are the 
Osians to you? They are strangers. You will do for them, and 
uselessly, what you refuse to do for the woman you profess to 
love. I abhor bloodshed. Your honor is the offspring of pride 
and egotism. Can you not see the inevitable? War will be 
declared. You can not help Leopold; but you can save him the 
degradation of being expelled from his throne by force of arms. 
The army of the duchess is true to its humblest sword. Can you 
say that for the army of the king? Would you witness the 
devastation of a beautiful city, by flame and sword?

"Monsieur, Austria is with us, and she will abide with us 
whichever way we move. Austria, Monsieur, which is Leopold's 
sponsor. And this Leopold, is he a man to sit upon a throne? Is 
he a king in any sense of the word? Would a king submit to such 
ignominy as he submits to without striking a blow? Would he 
permit his ministers to override him? Would he permit his army 
to murmur, his agents to plunder, his people to laugh at him, if 
he possessed one kingly attribute? No, no! If you were king, 
would you allow these things? No! You would silence all murmurs, 
you would disgorge your agents, you would throttle those who 
dared to laugh.

"Put yourself in the duchess's place. All these beautiful lands 
are hers by right of succession; is she wrong to desire them? 
What does she wish to accomplish? She wishes to join the kingdom 
and the duchy, and to make a great kingdom, as it formerly was. 
Do you know why Leopold was seated upon the throne?

"Some day the confederation will decide to divide all these 
lands into tidbits, and there will be no one to oppose them. 
Madame the duchess wishes to be strong enough to prevent it. And 
you, Monsieur, are the grain of sand which stops all this, you 
and your pride. Not even a woman's love-- There, I have said it!-
-not even a woman's love-- will move your sense of justice. Go! 
leave me. Since my love is nothing, since the sacrifice I make 
is useless, go; you are free!" The tears which came into her 
eyes this time were genuine; tears of chagrin, vexation, and of 
a third sensation which still remained a mystery to her.

To him, as she spoke, with her wonderful eyes flashing, a rich 
color suffusing her cheeks and throat and temples, the dim 
candle light breaking against the ruddy hair; honor or pride, 
whichever it was, was well worth the losing. He was a man; it is 
only the pope who is said to be infallible. His honor could not 
save the king. All she had said was true. If he held to his word 
there would be war and bloodshed.

On the other hand, if he surrendered, less harm would befall the 
king, and the loss of his honor --was it honor?--would be well 
recompensed for the remainder of his days by the love of this 
woman. His long years of loneliness came back; he wavered. He 
glanced first at her, then at the door; one represented all that 
was desirable in the world, the other more loneliness, coupled 
with unutterable regret. Still he wavered, and finally he fell.

"Madame, will you be my wife?"

"Yes." And it seemed to her that the word, came to her lips by 
no volition of hers. As she had grown red but a moment gone, she 
now grew correspondingly pale, and her limbs shook. She had 
irrevocably committed herself. "No, no!" as she saw him start 
forward with outstretched arms,. "not my lips till I am your 
wife! Not my lips; only my hands!"

He covered them with kisses.

"Hush!" as she stepped back.

It was time. Maurice and the countess entered the room. Maurice 
glanced from Madame to Fitzgerald and back to Madame; he frowned.
The Englishman, who had never before had cause to dissemble, 
caught up his pipe and fumbled it. This act merely discovered 
his embarrassment to the keen eyes of his friend. He had 
forgotten all about Maurice. What would he say? Maurice was 
something like a conscience to him, and his heart grew troubled.

"Madame," Maurice whispered to the countess, "I have lost all 
faith in you; you have kept me too long under the stars."

"Confidences?" said Madame, with a swift inquiring glance at the 
countess.

"O, no," said Maurice. "I simply complained that Madame the 
countess had kept me too long under the stars. But here is 
Colonel Mollendorf, freshly returned from Brunnstadt to inform 
you that the army is fully prepared for any emergency. Is not 
that true, Colonel?" as he beheld that individual standing in 
the doorway.

"Yes; but how the deuce--your pardon, ladies! --did you find 
that out?" demanded the Colonel.

"I guessed it," was the answer. "But there will be no need of an 
army now. Come, John, the Colonel, who is no relative of the 
king's minister of police, has not the trick of concealing his 
impatience. He has something important to say to Madame, and we 
are in the way. Come along, AEneas, follow your faithful Achates;
Thalia has a rehearsal."

Fitzgerald thrust his pipe into a pocket. "Good night, Madame," 
he said diffidently; "and you, countess."

"Good night, Colonel," sang out Maurice over his shoulder, and 
together the pair climbed the stairs.

Fitzgerald was at a loss how to begin, for something told him 
that Maurice would demand an explanation, though the affair was 
none of his concern. He filled his pipe, fired it and tramped 
about the room. Sometimes he picked up the end of a window 
curtain and felt of it; sometimes he posed before one of the 
landscape oils.

"You have something on your mind," said Maurice, pulling off his 
hussar jacket and kicking it across the room.

"Madame has promised to be my wife."

"And the conditions?" curtly.

Fitzgerald pondered over the other's lack of surprise. "What 
would you do if you loved a woman and she promised to be your 
wife?"

"I'd marry her," sitting down at the table.

"What would you do in my place, and Madame had promised to marry 
you?" puffing quickly.

"I'd marry her," answered Maurice, banging his fist on the table,
"even if all the kings and queens of Europe rose up against me. 
I would marry her, if I had to bind her hands and feet and carry 
her to the altar and force the priest at the point of a pistol, 
which, in all probability, is what you will have to do."

"I love her," sullenly.

"Do you know who she is?"

"No."

"Would it make any difference?"

"No. Who is she?"

"She is a woman without conscience; she is a woman who, to gain 
her miserable ends, will stop neither at falsehood, deceit nor 
bloodshed. Do you want me to tell you more? She is--"

"Maurice, tell me nothing which will cause me to regret your 
friendship. I love her; she has promised to be my wife."

"She will ruin you."

"She has already done that," laconically.

"Do you mean to tell me--"

"Yes! For the promise of her love I am dishonored. For the 
privilege of kissing her lips I have sold my honor. To call her 
mine, I would go through hell. God! do you know what it is to be 
lonely, to starve in God-forsaken lands, to dream of women, to 
long for them?"

"And the poor paralytic king?"

"What is he to me?"

"And your father?"

"What are my dead father's wishes? Maurice, I am mad!"

"You are a very sick man," Maurice replied crossly. "What's to 
become of all these vows--"

"You are wasting your breath! Do you remember what 
Rochefoucauld said of Madame de Longueville?--`To win her heart, 
to delight her beautiful eyes, I have taken up arms against the 
king; I would have done the same against the gods!' Is she not 
worth it all?" with a gesture of his arms which sent the live 
coals of his pipe comet-like across the intervening space. "Is 
she not worth it all?"

"Who?--Madame de Longueville? I thought she was dead these two 
hundred years!"

"Damn it, Maurice!"

"I will, if you say so. The situation is equal to a good deal of 
plain, honest damning." Maurice banged his fist again. "John, 
sit down and listen to me. I'll not sit still and see you made a 
fool. Promises? This woman will keep none. When she has wrung 
you dry she will fling you aside. At this moment she is probably 
laughing behind your back. You were brought here for this 
purpose. Threats and bribes were without effect. Love might 
accomplish what the other two had failed to do. You know little 
of the ways of the world. Do you know that this house party is 
scandalous, for all its innocence? Do you know that Madame's 
name would be a byword were it known that we have been here more 
than two weeks, alone with two women? Who but a woman that feels 
herself above convention would dare offer this affront to 
society? Do you know why Madame the countess came? Company for 
Madame? No; she was to play make love to me to keep me out of 
the way. Ass that I was, I never suspected till too late! 
Madame's name is not Sylvia Amerbach; it is--"

The door opened unceremoniously and in walked the Colonel.

"Your voices are rather high, gentlemen," he said calmly, and 
sat down in an easy chair.




CHAPTER XIII


BEING OF COMPLICATIONS NOT RECKONED ON

Maurice leaped to his feet, a menace in his eyes. The Colonel 
crossed his legs, rested his hands on the hilt of his saber, and 
smiled.

"I could not resist the desire to have a friendly chat with you."

"You have come cursed inopportune," snarled Maurice. "What do 
you want?"

"I want to give you the countersigns, so that when you start for 
Bleiberg to-morrow morning you'll have no trouble."

"Bleiberg !" exclaimed Maurice.

"Bleiberg. Madame desires me to say to you that you are to start 
for that city in the morning, to fetch those slips of parchment 
which have caused us all these years of worry. Ah, my friend," 
to Fitzgerald, "Madame would be cheap at twenty millions! You 
sly dog! And I never suspected it."

Fitzgerald sent him a scowl. "You are damned impertinent, sir."

"Impertinent?" The Colonel uncrossed his legs and brought his 
knees together. "Madame has been under my care since she was a 
child, Monsieur; I have a fatherly interest in her. At any rate, 
I am glad that the affair is at an end. It was very noble in you.
If I had had my way, though, it would have been war, pure and 
simple. I left the duchess in Brunnstadt this morning; she will 
be delighted to attend the wedding."

"She will attend it," said Maurice, grimly; "but I would not lay 
odds on her delight. Colonel, the devil take me if I go to 
Bleiberg on any such errand." He went to the window seat.

The Colonel rose and followed him. "Pardon me," he said to 
Fitzgerald, who did not feel at all complimented by Madame's 
haste; "a few words in Monsieur Carewe's ear. He will go to 
Bleiberg; he will be glad to go." He bent towards Maurice. "Go 
to Bleiberg, my son. A word to him about Madame, and off you go 
to Brunnstadt. Will you be of any use there? I think not. The 
little countess would cry out her pretty eyes if she heard that 
you were languishing in the city prison at Brunnstadt, where 
only the lowest criminals are confined. Submit gracefully, that 
is to say, like a soldier against whom the fortunes of war have 
gone. Go to Bleiberg."

"I'll go. I give up." It was not the threat which brought him to 
this decision. It was a vision of a madonna-like face. "I'll go, 
John. Where are the certificates?"

"Between the mattresses and the slats of my bed you will find a 
gun in a case. The certificates are in the barrels." His 
countenance did not express any particular happiness; the lines 
about his mouth were sharper than usual.

"The devil!" cried the Colonel; "if only I had known that!" He 
laughed. "Well, I'll leave you. Six o'clock--what's this?" as he 
stooped and picked up Maurice's cast-off hussar jacket.

"I was about to use it as a door mat," said Maurice, who was in 
a nasty humor. That Fitzgerald had surrendered did not irritate 
him half so much as the thought that he was the real puppet. His 
hands were tied, he could not act, and he was one that loved his 
share in games.

The Colonel reddened under his tan. "No; I'll not lose my temper,
though this is cause enough. Curse me, but you lack courtesy. 
This is my uniform, and whatever it may be to you it is sacred 
to me. You were not forced into it; you were not compelled to 
wear it. What would you do if a man wore your uniform and flung 
it around in this manner?"

"I'd knock him down," Maurice admitted. "I apologize, Colonel; 
it was not manly. But you must make allowances; my good nature 
has suffered a severe strain. I'll get into my own clothes to-
morrow if you will have a servant sew on some buttons and mend 
the collar. By the way, who is eating three meals a day in the 
east corridor on the third floor?"

Their glances fenced. The Colonel rubbed his mustache.

"I like you," he said; "hang me if I don't. But as well as I 
like you, I would not give a denier for your life if you were 
found in that self-same corridor. The sentinel has orders to 
shoot; but don't let that disturb you; you will know sooner or 
later. It is better to wait than be shot. A horse will be 
saddled at six. You will find it in the court. The countersigns 
are Weixel and Arnoldt. Good luck to you."

"The same to you," rejoined Maurice, "only worse."

The Colonel's departure was followed by a period of temporary 
speechlessness. Maurice smoked several "Khedives," while 
Fitzgerald emptied two or three pipe-bowls.

"You seem to be in bad odor, Maurice," the latter ventured.

"In more ways than one. Where, in heaven's name, did you 
resurrect that pipe?"

"In the stables. It isn't the pipe, it's the tobacco. I had to 
break up some cigars."

Then came another period in the conversation. It occurred to 
both that something yawned between them--a kind of abyss. Out of 
this abyss one saw his guilt arise. . . . A woman stood at his 
side. He had an accomplice. He had thrown the die, and he would 
stand stubbornly to it. His pride built yet another wall around 
him, impregnable either to protests or to sneers. He loved-- 
that was recompense enough. A man will forgive himself of grave 
sins when these are debtors to his love.

As for the other, he beheld a trust betrayed, and he was 
powerless to prevent it. Besides, his self-love smarted, chagrin 
made eyes at him; and, more than all else, he recognized his own 
share in the Englishman's fall from grace. It had been innocent 
mischief on his part, true, but nevertheless he stood culpable. 
He had no business to talk to a woman he did not know. The more 
he studied the aspects of the situation the more whimsical it 
grew. He was the prime cause of a king losing his throne, of a 
man losing his honor, of a princess becoming an outcast.

"Your bride-elect," he said, "seems somewhat over-hasty. Well, 
I'm off to bed."

"Maurice, can you blame me?"

"No, John; whom the gods destroy they first make mad. You will 
come to your senses when it is too late."

"For God's sake, Maurice, who is she?"

"What will you do if she breaks her promise?" adroitly evading 
the question.

"What shall I do?" He emptied the ashes from his pipe, and rose; 
all that was aggressive came into his face. "I will bind her 
hands and feet and carry her to the altar, and shoot the priest 
that refuses to marry us. O Maurice, rest easy; no woman lives 
who will make a fool of me, and laugh."

"That's comfort;" and Maurice turned in.

This night it was the Englishman who sat up till the morning 
hours. Sylvia Amerbach. . . . A fear possessed him. If it should 
be, he thought; if it should be, what then?



Midnight in Madame's boudoir; no light save that which streamed 
rosily from the coals in the grate. The countess sat with her 
slippered feet upon the fender. She held in her hand a screen, 
and if any thoughts marked her face, they remained in blurred 
obscurity.

"Heu!" said Madame from the opposite side; "it is all over. It 
was detestable. I, to suffer this humiliation! Do you know what 
I have done? I have promised to be his wife! His wife, I! Is it 
not droll?" There was a surprising absence of mirth in the low 
laugh which followed.

"I trust Madame will find it droll."

"And you?"

"And I, Madame?"

"Yes; did you not bring the clown to your feet?"

"No, Madame."

"How? You did not have the joy denied me --of laughing in his face?"

"No, Madame." With each answer the voice grew lower.

"Since when have I been Madame to you?"

"Since to-day."

Madame reached out a band and pressed down the screen. "Elsa, 
what is it?"

"What is what, Madame?"

"This strange mood of yours."

Silence.

"You were gay enough this morning. Tell me."

"There is nothing to tell, Madame, save that my sacrifices are 
at an end. I have nothing left."

"What! You forsake me when the end is won?" in astonishment.

"I did not say that I should desert you; I said that I had no 
more sacrifices to make." The Countess rose. "For your sake, 
Madame, because you have always been kind to me, and because it 
is impossible not to love you, I have degraded myself. I have 
pretended to love a man who saw through the artifice and told me 
so, to save me further shame. O Madame, it is all execrable!

"And you will use this love which you have gained--this first 
love of a man who has known no other and will know no other 
while he lives!-- to bring about his ruin? This other, at whose 
head you threw me--beware of him. He is light-hearted and gay, 
perhaps. You call him a clown; he is cunning and brave; and 
unless you judge him at his true value, your fabric of schemes 
will fall ere it reaches its culmination. Could even you trick 
him with words? No. You were compelled to use force. Is he not 
handsome, Madame?" with a feverish gaiety. "Is there a gentleman 
at your court who is a more perfect cavalier? Why, he blushes 
like a woman! Is there in your court--" But her sentence broke, 
and she could not go on.

"Elsa, are you mad?"

"Yes, Madame, yes; they call it a species of madness." Then, 
with a sudden gust of wrath: "Why did you not leave me in peace? 
You have destroyed me! O, the shame of it!" and she fled into 
her own room.

Madame sat motionless. This, among other things, she had not 
reckoned on.

Only the troopers and the servants slept in peace that night.

Maurice was up betimes next morning. The hills and valleys lay 
under a mantle of sparkling rime, and the very air, keen of edge 
and whistling, glistened in the sunlight. The iron shoes of the 
horses beat sharply on the stone flooring of the court yard. 
Maurice examined his riding furniture; pulled at the saddle, 
tugged at the rein buckles, lifted the leather flaps and tried 
the stirrup straps. It was not that he doubted the ability of 
the groom; it was because this particular care was second nature 
to him.

Fitzgerald watched him, and meditated. Some of his thoughts were 
not pleasant. His eyes were heavy. At times he would lift his 
shoulders and permit half a smile to flicker over his lips; a 
certain thought caused this. The Colonel sat astride a broad-
chested cavalry horse, spotless white. He was going to accompany 
Maurice to the frontier. He had imbibed the exhilarating tonic 
of the morning, and his spirits ran high. At length Maurice 
leaped into the saddle, caught the stirrups well, and signaled 
to the Colonel that he was ready.

"You understand, Maurice?" Fitzgerald asked.

"Yes, John; all the world loves a lover. Besides, it is a 
glorious morning for a ride. Up, portcullis, down drawbridge!" 
waving his hand to the Colonel.

And away they went through the gateway, into the frosted road. 
Maurice felt the spirit of some medieval ancestor creep into his 
veins and he longed for an hour of the feudal days, to rescue a 
princess from some dungeon-keep and to harry an over-lord. After 
all, she was a wonderful woman, and Fitzgerald was only a man. 
To give up all for the love of woman is the only sacrifice a man 
can make.

"En avant!" cried the Colonel. "A fine day, a fine day for the 
house of Auersperg!"

"And a devilish bad one for the houses of Fitzgerald and Carewe. 
Woman's ambition, coupled with her deceit, is the root of all 
evil; money is simply an invention of man to protect himself 
from her encroachments. Eve was ambitious and deceitful; all 
women are her daughters. When the pages of history grow dull--"

"Time puts a maggot in my lady's brain," supplemented the 
Colonel. "It is like a row of dominoes. The power behind the 
throne, the woman behind the power; an impulse moves the woman, 
and lo! how they clatter down. But without woman, history would 
be poor reading. The greatest battles in the world, could we but 
see behind, were fought for women. Men are but footnotes, and 
unfortunately history is made up of footnotes. But it is a fine 
thing to be a footnote; that is my ambition.

"Ah, if you but knew what a pleasure it is for an old man like 
me to have a finger in the game time plays! To meddle with 
affairs, directly or indirectly! Kingdoms are but judy shows, 
kings and queens but puppets; but we who pull the strings--Ah, 
that is it! To play a game of chess with crowns!"

"There are exceptions; Madame seems to hold the strings in this 
instance."

"Madame follows my advice in all she does."

Maurice opened his eyes at this statement.

"Would you believe an old man like me could lay such a train? 
All this was my idea. It was difficult to get Madame to agree 
with my views. War? I am not afraid of it; I am suspicious of it.
One day your friend returned a personal letter of Madame's 
having written across it, `I laugh at you.' It was very foolish. 
No man laughs at Madame more than once. She will, one day, 
return this letter to him. A crown, a fine revenge, in one fell 
swoop."

"She will ruin him utterly?"

"Utterly."

"Have you any idea what sort of man my friend is?"

"He lacks the polish of a man of affairs, and he surrenders too 
easily."

"He will never surrender--Madame."

"How?"

"You remember his father; he will prove his father's son, every 
inch of him. O, my Colonel, the curtain has only risen. One fine 
morning your duchy will wake up without a duchess."

"What do you imply--an abduction?" The Colonel laughed.

"That is my secret."

"And the pretty countess?" banteringly.

"It was rather bad taste in Madame. It was putting love and 
patriotism to questionable purposes. I am a gentleman."

"It was out of consideration for you; Madame was not quite sure 
about you. But you are right; all of it has rather a dark shade. 
You may rob a man of his valuables and give them back; a broken 
word is not to be mended. Why did you keep the hiding place so 
secret? I could have got those consols, and all this would have 
been avoided."

"How should I know where they were? It was none of my affair."

"We are trusting you; I might have gone myself. You will return 
with the treasure. Why have I not asked your word? Curiosity 
will bring you back; curiosity. Besides this, you have an idea 
that with your presence about, a flaw in the glass may be found. 
Yes, you will be back. History is to be made; when you are old 
you will glance at the page and say: `Look there; rather a 
pretty bit, eh? Well, I helped to make it; indeed, had it not 
been for me and my curiosity it would not have been made at all.'
Above all things, do not stop to talk to veiled women."

There was a chuckling sound. "I say, your Englishman is clever 
now and then. In the gun barrels! Who would have looked for them 
there? But why did he come himself? Why did he not trust to his 
bankers? Why did he not turn over the affair to his 
representative, the British minister? There were a hundred ways 
of averting the catastrophe. Why did he not use a little fore-
thought when he knew how anxious we were for his distinguished 
person?"

"Why does the moon rise at night and the sun at dawn? I am no 
Cumaean Sybil. Perhaps it is the impulse which moves the woman 
behind the power behind the throne; they call it fate. Had I 
been in his place I dare say I should have followed his 
footsteps."

Not long after they arrived at the frontier where they were to 
separate, to meet again under conditions disagreeable to both. 
The Colonel gave him additional instructions.

"Go; return as quickly as possible."

"Never fear; I should not like to miss the finale to this opera 
bouffe."

"Rail on, my son; call it by any name you please, only do not 
interrupt the prompter;" and with this the Colonel waved him an 
adieu.

Maurice began the journey through the mountain pass, thinking 
and planning and scheming. However he looked at the situation, 
the end was the same: the Osians were doomed. If he himself 
played false and retained the certificates until too late to be 
of benefit to the duchess, war would follow; and the kingdom 
would be soundly beaten. . . . Would Prince Frederick still hold 
to his agreement and marry her Royal Highness, however ill the 
fortunes of war fared? There was a swift current of blood to his 
heart. The Voiture-verse of a countess faded away. . . . 
Supposing Prince Frederick withdrew his claims? Some day her 
Highness would be free; free, without title or money or shelter. 
It was a wild dream. Was there not, when all was said, a faint 
hope for his own affairs in the fall of Fitzgerald?

She was lonely, friendless, personally known to few. Still, she 
would be an Osian princess for all her misfortunes. But an Osian 
princess was not so great that love might not possess her. 
Without royalty she would be only a woman. What would Austria do;
what would Austria say? If Austria had placed Leopold on the 
throne, certainly it was to shut out the house of Auersperg.

And who was this man Beauvais, who served one house openly and 
another under the rose? Where had he met him before, and why did 
the thought of him cause unrest? To rescue her somehow, to win 
her love, to see the glory of the world light the heavens in her 
eyes! If the dream was mad, it was no less pleasant.

He was a commoner; he had nothing in the world but his brain and 
his arm. Fitzgerald, now, possessed a famous title and an 
ancient name. These kings and princes hereabout could boast of 
but little more than he; and there were millions to back him. He 
could dream of princesses and still be sane. Maurice did not 
envy the Englishman's riches, but he coveted his right of way.

How often had he indulged in vain but pleasant dreams! Even in 
the old days he was always succoring some proud beauty in 
distress. Sometimes it was at sea, sometimes in railroad wrecks, 
sometimes in the heart of flames; but he was ever there, like a 
guardian angel. It was never the same heroine, but that did not 
matter; she was always beautiful and rich, high placed and 
lovable, and he never failed to brush aside all obstacles that 
beset the path to the church door. He had dreamed of paladins, 
and here at last was his long-sought opportunity--but he could 
do nothing! He laughed. How many such romances lay beneath the 
banter and jest of those bald bachelor diplomat friends of his? 
Had fate reserved him for one of these?

It was noon when he entered the city of Bleiberg. He went 
directly to his hotel, where a bath and a change of clothes took 
the stiffness from his limbs. He was in no great hurry to go to 
the Grand Hotel; there was plenty of time. Happily there was no 
mail for him; he was not needed in Vienna.

At two o'clock he set out for the lower town. On the way he 
picked up odd ends of news. The king was rapidly sinking; he had 
suffered another stroke, and was now without voice. There was 
unusual activity in the barracks. The students of the university 
were committing mild depredations, such as building bonfires, 
holding flambeau processions, and breaking windows which 
contained the photographs of Prince Frederick of Carnavia, who, 
strangely enough, was still wrapt in obscurity. When Maurice 
entered the Grand Hotel he looked casually among the porters, 
but the round-faced one was missing. He approached the desk. The 
proprietor did not recognize him.

"No, my friend," said Maurice, affably, as a visitors' book was 
pushed forward, "I am not going to sign. Instead, I wish to ask 
a favor. A week ago a party of the king's troopers met upstairs."

The proprietor showed signs of returning memory, together with a 
strange agitation.

"There was a slight disturbance," went on Maurice, still using 
the affable tone. "Herr--ah-- Hamilton, I believe--"

The proprietor grew limp and yellow. "I--I do not know where he 
is."

"I do," replied Maurice. "Don't you recognize me? Have I changed 
so since I came here to doctor a sprained ankle?"

"You?--Before God, Herr, I was helpless; I had nothing to do 
with it!" terrified at the peculiar smile of the victim.

"The key to this gentleman's room," was the demand.

"I--"

"The key, and be quick about it."

The key came forth. "You will say nothing, Herr; it would ruin 
my business. It was a police affair."

"Has any one been in this room since?"

"No, Herr; the key has been in my pocket."

"Where is the porter who brought me here?"

"He was not a porter; he was with the police."

Maurice passed up the stairs. He found the room in disorder, but 
a disorder rather familiar to his eyes. He had been the cause of 
most of it. Here was where he broke the baron's arm and thumped 
three others on the head. It had been a good fight. Here was a 
hole in the wall where one of the empty revolvers had gone--
missing the Colonel's head by an inch.

There was a smudge on the carpet made by the falling candles. He 
saw Fitzgerald's pipe and picked it up. No; the chamber maid had 
not yet been there. He went over to the bed, stared at it and 
shrugged. He raised the mattress. There was the gun case. He 
drew it forth and took out the gun, not, however, without a 
twist of his nerves.

Four millions of crowns, a woman's love, the fall of one dynasty 
and the rise of another, all wadded in those innocent looking 
gun barrels! He hesitated for a space, then unlocked the breech 
and held the tubes toward the window. There was nothing in the 
barrels, nothing but the golden sunlight, which glinted along 
the polished steel.





CHAPTER XIV


QUI M'AIME, AIME MON CHIEN

On making this discovery Maurice was inclined to declaim in that 
vigorous vocabulary which is taboo. He had been tricked. He was 
no longer needed at the Red Chateau. Four millions in a gun 
barrel; hoax was written all over the face of it, and yet he had 
been as unsuspicious as a Highland gillie. Madame had tricked 
him; the countess had tricked him, the Colonel and Fitzgerald.

That Madame had tricked him created no surprise; what irritated 
him most was the conviction that Fitzgerald was laughing in his 
sleeve, and that he had misjudged the Englishman's capacity for 
dissimulation. Very well. He threw the gun on the bed; he took 
Fitzgerald's pipe from his pocket and cast it after the gun, and 
with a gesture which placed all the contents of the room under 
the ban of his anathema, he strode out into the corridor, thence 
to the office.

Here the message to Madame from Beauvais flashed back. The 
Colonel of the royal cuirassiers had lied; he had found the 
certificates. But still there was a cloud of mystery; to what 
use could Beauvais put them? He threw the key to the landlord.

"You lied to me when you said that no one had entered that room,"
he said.

"O, Herr, I told you that no one but the police had been in the 
room since your departure. They made a search the next morning. 
Herr Hamilton was suspected of being a spy of the duchy's. I 
could not interfere with the police."

Maurice saw that there was nothing to be got from the landlord, 
who was as much in the dark as he. He passed into the street and 
walked without any particular end in view. O, he would return to 
the Red Chateau, if only to deliver himself of the picturesque 
and opinionated address on Madame. Once he saw his reflection in 
a window glass, and he stopped and muttered at it.

"Eh, bien, as Madame herself says, we develop with crises, and 
certainly there is one not far distant. I never could write what 
I wish to say to Madame; I'll go back to-morrow morning."

Situated between the university and the Grand Hotel on the left 
hand side of the Konigstrasse, east, stood an historical relic 
of the days when Austria, together with the small independent 
states, strove to shake off the Napoleonic yoke. In those days 
students formed secret societies; societies full of strange 
ritual, which pushed devotion to fanaticism, which stopped at 
nothing, not even assassination. To exterminate the French, to 
regain their ancestral privileges, to rescue their country from 
its prostrate humiliation, many sacrificed their lives and their 
fortunes.

Napoleon found no means of reaching these patriots, for they 
could not be purchased. This convinced Napoleon of their 
earnestness, for he could buy kings and princes. The students 
were invisible, implacable, and many a brilliant officer of the 
imperial guard disappeared, never to return.

This historic relic of the Konigstrasse had been the 
headquarters of one of the branches of these numerous societies; 
and the students still held to those ancient traditions. But men 
and epochs pass swiftly; only the inanimate remain. This temple 
of patriotism is simply an inn to-day, owned by one Stuler, and 
is designated by those who patronize it as "Old Stuler's." It is 
the gathering place of the students. It consists of a hall and a 
garden, the one facing the street, the other walled in at the 
rear.

The hall is made of common stone, bald and unadorned save by 
four dingy windows and a tarnished sign, "Garten," which hangs 
obliquely over the entrance. At the curb stands a post with 
three lamps pendant; but these are never lit because Old Stuler 
can keep neither wicks nor glass beyond the reach of canes.

Old Stuler was well versed in the peculiarities of students. In 
America they paint statues; in Austria they create darkness. On 
warm, clear nights the students rioted in the garden; when it 
rained, chairs and tables were carried into the hall, which 
contained a small stage and a square gallery. Never a night 
passed without its animated scene.

Here it was that the evils of monarchical systems were discussed,
the army service, the lack of proper amusement, the 
restrictions at the stage entrance to the opera; here it was 
that they concocted their exploits, fought their duels, and 
planned means of outwitting Old Stuler's slate.

Stuler was a good general; he could keep the students in order, 
watch his assistants draw beer, the Rhine wine, and the scum 
(dregs of the cask, muddy and strong), and eye the accumulating 
accounts on the slate. This slate was wiped out once the month; 
that is to say, when remittances came from home. The night 
following remittances was a glorious one both to Stuler and the 
students. There were new scars, new subjects for debate, and 
Stuler got rid of some of his prime tokayer. The politics of the 
students was socialism, which is to say they were always 
dissatisfied. Tourists seldom repeated their visits to Stuler's. 
There was too much spilling of beer in laps, dumping of pipe ash 
into uncovered steins, and knocking off of stiff hats.

It was in front of Old Stuler's that Maurice came to a pause. He 
had heard of the place and the praise of its Hofbrau and Munich 
beers. He entered. He found the interior dark and gloomy, though 
outside the sun shone brilliantly. He ordered a stein of Hofbrau,
and carried it into the main hall, which was just off the bar-
room. It was much lighter here, though the hall had the tawdry 
appearance of a theater in the day-time; and the motes swam 
thickly in the beams of sunshine which entered through the half-
closed shutters. It was only at night that Stuler's was 
presentable.

Scarcely a dozen men sat at the tables. In one corner Maurice 
saw what appeared to be a man asleep on his arms, which were 
extended the width of the table. It was the cosiest corner in 
the hall, and Maurice decided to establish himself at the other 
side of the table, despite the present incumbent. Noiselessly he 
crossed the floor and sat down. The light was at his back, 
leaving his face in the shadow, but shone squarely on the 
sleeper's head.

"I do not envy his headache when he wakes up," thought Maurice. 
He had detected the vinous odor of the sleeper's breath. "These 
headaches, while they last, are bad things. I know; I've had 'em.
I wonder," lifting the stein and draining it, "who the duffer 
was who said that getting drunk was fun? His name has slipped my 
memory; no matter." He set down the stein and banged the lid.

The sleeper stirred. "Rich," he murmured; "rich, rich! I'm rich! 
A hundred thousand crowns!"

"My friend, I'm not in the position to dispute with you on that 
subject," said Maurice, smiling. He rapped the stein again.

The sleeper raised his head and stared stupidly,

"Rich, aye, rich!" He was still in half a dream. "Rich, I say!"

"Hang it, I'm not arguing on that," Maurice laughed.

The other swung upright at this, his round, oily face sodden, 
his black eyes blinking. He threw off the stupor when he saw 
that it was a man and not the shadow of one.

"Who the devil are you?" he asked, thickly.

Maurice seldom forgot a face. He recognized this one. "Oho!" he 
said, "so it's you, eh? I did not expect to meet you. Happily I 
had you in mind. You are not employed at present as a porter at 
the Grand Hotel? So it is you, my messenger!"

"Who are you and what are you talking about? I don't know you."

"Wait a moment and I'll refresh your memory." Maurice 
theatrically thrust a cigar between his teeth and struck a match.
As the flame illumined his features the questioner started. "So 
you do not recognize me, eh? You haven't the slightest 
remembrance of Herr Hamilton and his sprained ankle, eh? Sit 
down or I'll break your head with this stein, you police spy!" 
dropping the bantering tone.

The other sat down, but he whistled sharply; and Maurice saw the 
dozen or so rise from the other tables and come hurriedly in his 
direction. He pushed back his chair and rose, his teeth firmly 
embedded in the cigar, and waited.

"What's the trouble, Kopf?" demanded the newcomers.

"This fellow accuses me of being a spy and threatens to break my 
head."

"O! break your head, is it? Let us see. Come, brothers; out with 
this fellow."

Maurice saw that they were about to charge him, and his hand 
went to his hip pocket and rested on the butt of the revolver 
which the Colonel had given him. "Gentlemen," he said, quietly, 
"I have no discussion with you. I have a pistol in my pocket, 
and I'm rather handy with it. I desire to talk to this man, and 
talk to him I will. Return to your tables; the affair doesn't 
concern you."

The intended assault did not materialize. They scowled, but 
retired a few paces. They saw the movement toward the hip pocket,
and they noted the foreign twist of the tongue. Moreover, they 
did not like the angle of the speaker's jaws. They shuffled, 
looked questioningly at one another, and, as if all of a single 
mind, went slowly back to their chairs. Kopf grew pale. Indeed, 
his pallor was out of all proportion with the affair, which 
Maurice took to be no more than a comedy.

"Brothers," he said, huskily, "he will not dare."

"Don't you doubt it for a moment," interrupted Maurice, taking 
out the revolver and fondling it. "Any interference will mean 
one or more cases for the hospital. Come, I'm not the police," 
to Kopf. "I am not going to hurt you. I wish only to ask you a 
few questions, which is my right after what has passed between 
us. We'll go to my hotel, where we shan't be disturbed."

Together they left the hall. As they passed through the bar-room 
Stuler looked questions, but refrained from asking them. Maurice 
put away the revolver. As they went out into the street he drew 
Kopf's arm within his own.

"What do you want?" asked Johann, savagely.

"First. What is your place in this affair?"

"What affair?"

"The abduction."

"I had nothing to do with it, Herr, on my honor. I was only a 
porter, and I supposed my errand was in good faith."

"How about the gentle push you gave me when the door opened? My 
friend, I'm no infant. Lies will do you no good. I know 
everything, and wish only to verify. You are a police spy, in 
the employ of the duchess." Maurice felt the arm draw, and bore 
down on it.

"If I was, do you suppose I'd fool my time on this side of the 
Thalians?" Johann shrugged.

"I'm not sure about that," said Maurice, puffing into Johann's 
face. "When cabinet ministers play spy, small fry like you will 
not cavil at the occupation. And you are not in their pay?" 
Johann glared. "I want to know," Maurice went on, "what you know;
what you know of Colonel Beauvais, his plans, his messengers to 
the duchy, what is taking place underneath."

Johann's face cleared and a cunning light brightened his eyes. 
"If that is all you are after, I'll tell you. I'm a spy no 
longer; they have no more use for me, despite their promises. 
I'll play them off for quits."

"If that's all," repeated Maurice, "what did you think I wanted 
to ask you?"

Johann bit his lip. "I'm wanted badly by the chancellor, curse 
you, if you must know. I thought he might be behind you."

"Don't worry about that," said Maurice, to whom this declaration 
seemed plausible. "We'll talk as we go along."

And Johann loosened his tongue and poured into Maurice's ear a 
tale which, being half a truth, had all the semblance of 
straightforwardness. What he played for was time; to gain time 
and to lull his captor's suspicions. Maurice was not familiar 
with the lower town; Johann was. A few yards ahead there was an 
alley he knew, and once in it he could laugh at all pursuit. It 
might be added that if Maurice knew but little of the lower town,
he knew still less about Johann.

Suddenly, in the midst of his narrative, Johann put his leg 
stiffly between his enemy's and gave a mighty jerk with his arm, 
with the result that Maurice, wholly unprepared, went sprawling 
to the pavement. He was on his feet in an instant, but Johann 
was free and flying up the alley. Maurice gave chase, but 
uselessly. Johann had disappeared. The alley was a cul de sac, 
but was lined with doors; and these Maurice hammered to ease his 
conscience. No one answered. Deeply disgusted with his lack of 
caution, Maurice regained the street, where he brushed the dust 
from his knees.

"I'll take it out of his hide the next time we meet. He wasn't 
worth the trouble, anyway."

A sybil might have whispered in his ear that a very large fish 
had escaped his net, but Maurice continued, conscious of nothing 
save chagrin and a bruised knee. He resumed the piecing together 
of events, or rather he attempted to; very few pieces could be 
brought together. If Beauvais had the certificates, what was his 
object in lying to Madame? What benefit would accrue to him? 
After all, it was a labyrinth of paths which always brought him 
up to the beginning. He drooped his shoulders dejectedly. There 
was nothing left for him to do but return to the Red Chateau and 
inform them of the fruitlessness of his errand. He would start 
on the morrow. Tonight he wanted once more to hear the band, to 
wander about the park, to row around the rear of the 
archbishop's garden.

"A fine thing to be born in purple--sometimes," he mused. "I 
never knew till now the inconveniences of the common mold."

He tramped on, building chateaux en Espagne. That they tumbled 
down did not matter; he could rebuild in the space of a second, 
and each castle an improvement on its predecessor.

His attention was suddenly drawn away from this idle but 
pleasant pursuit. In a side street he saw twenty or thirty 
students surging back and forth, laughing and shouting and 
jostling. In the center of this swaying mass canes rose and fell.
It was a fight, and as he loved a fight, Maurice pressed his 
hat firmly on his head and veered into the side street. He 
looked around guiltily, and was thankful that no feminine eyes 
were near to offer him their reproaches. He jostled among the 
outer circle, but could see nothing. He stooped. Something white 
flashed this way and that, accompanied by the sound of low 
growls. A dog fight was his first impression, and he was on the 
point of leaving, for, while he secretly enjoyed the sight of 
two physically perfect men waging battle, he had not the heart 
to see two brutes pitted against each other, goaded on by brutes 
of a lower caste. But even as he turned the crowd opened and 
closed, and the brief picture was enough for him.

Her dog! And the students were beating it because they knew it 
to be defenseless. Her dog! toothless and old, who could not 
hold when his jaws closed on an arm or leg, but who, with that 
indomitable courage of his race, fought on and on, hopelessly 
and stubbornly.

He was covered with blood, one of his legs was hurt, but still 
the spirit burned. It was cowardly. Maurice's jaws assumed a 
particularly ferocious angle. Her dog! Rage choked him. With an 
oath he flung this student aside and that, fought his way to the 
center. A burly student, armed with a stout cane, was the 
principal aggressor.

Maurice doubled his fist and swung a blow which had one hundred 
and sixty pounds behind it, and it landed squarely on the cheek 
of the student, who dropped face downward and lay still. This 
onslaught was so sudden and unexpected that the students were 
confounded. But Maurice, whose plans crystallized in moments 
like these, picked up the cane and laid it about him.

The students swore and yelled and stumbled over one another in 
their wild efforts to dodge the vindictive cane. Maurice cleared 
a wide circle. The dog, half blinded by his blood and not fully 
comprehending this new phase in the tide of events, lunged at 
Maurice, who nimbly eluded him. Finally the opportunity came. He 
flung the cane into the yelling pack, with his left arm caught 
the dog about the middle, and leaped back into the nearest 
doorway. The muscles of his left arm were sorely tried; the dog 
considered his part in the fray by no means ended, and he tugged 
and yelped huskily. With his right hand Maurice sought his 
revolver, cocked and leveled it. There came a respite. The 
students had not fully recovered from their surprise, and the 
yells sank into murmurs.

"You curs!" said Maurice, panting. "Shame on you! and an old dog 
that can't defend himself! You knew he had no teeth."

"God save your Excellency!" laughed a student in the rear, who 
had not tasted the cane; "you may be sure we knew he had no 
teeth or we wouldn't have risked our precious calves. Don't let 
him scare you with the popgun, comrades. At him, my brave ones; 
he will be more sport than the dog! Down with the Osians, dogs, 
followers and all!"

"Come on, then," said Maurice, whose fighting blood was at heat. 
"Come on, if you think it isn't over. There are six bullets in 
this popgun, and I don't give a particular damn where they go. 
Come on!"

Whether or not this challenge would have been accepted remains 
unwritten. There now came on the air the welcome sound of 
galloping hoofs, and presently two cuirassiers wheeled into the 
street. What Maurice had left undone with the cane the 
cuirassiers completed with the flat of their sabers. They had 
had a brush with the students the night before, and they went at 
them as if determined to take both interest and principal. The 
students dispersed like leaves in the wind--all save one. He 
rose to his feet, his hands covering his jaw and a dazed 
expression in his eyes. He saw Maurice with the revolver, the 
cuirassiers with their sabers, and the remnant of his army 
flying to cover, and he decided to follow their example. The 
scene had changed somewhat since he last saw it. He slunk off at 
a zigzag trot.

One of the cuirassiers dismounted, his face red from his 
exertions.

"Eh?" closely scanning Maurice's white face. "Well, well! is it 
you, Monsieur Carewe?"

"Lieutenant von Mitter?" cried Maurice, dropping the dog, who by 
now had grasped the meaning of it all. "You came just in time!"

They shook hands.

"I'll lay odds that you put up a good fight," the Lieutenant 
said, pleasantly. "Curse these students! If I had my way I'd 
coop them all up in their pest-hole of a university and blow 
them into eternity."

"And how did the dog come in this part of the town?" asked 
Maurice, picking up his hat.

"He was with her Royal Highness. This is charity afternoon. She 
drives about giving alms to the poor, and when she enters a 
house the dog stands at the entrance to await her return. She 
came out of another door and forgot the dog. Max there 
remembered him only when we were several blocks away. A dozen or 
so of those rascally students stood opposite us when we stopped 
here. It flashed on me in a minute why the dog did not follow us.
And we came back at a cut, leaving her Highness with no one but 
the groom. Max, take the dog to her Highness, and tell her that 
it is Monsieur Carewe who is to be thanked."

Maurice blushed. "Say nothing of my part in the fracas. It was 
nothing at all."

"Don't be modest, my friend," said the cuirassier, laughing, 
while his comrade dismounted, took the dog under his arm, and 
made off. "This is one chance in a lifetime. Her Royal Highness 
will insist on thanking you personally. O, I know Mademoiselle's 
caprices. And there's your hat, crushed all out of shape. Truly, 
you are unfortunate with your headgear."

"It's felt," said Maurice, slapping it against his leg. "No harm 
done to the hat. Well, good day to you, Lieutenant, and thanks. 
I must be off."

"Nay, nay!" cried the Lieutenant. "Wait a moment. `There is a 
tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood --' How 
does that line go? I was educated in England and speak English 
as I do my mother tongue--"

"Won't you let me go?" asked Maurice. "Look at my clothes."

"You ought to be thankful that they are dry this time. Come; 
you'll have a good story to carry back to Vienna. Princesses do 
not eat people."

"No," said Maurice.

"Ye gods, listen to that! One would think by the tone of your 
voice that you wished they did!"

There was no resisting this good humor; and Maurice wanted only 
an excuse to wait. He sat down on the steps, sucked the knuckles 
of his hand, and contemplated the grin on the cuirassier's face.

"I like you," said the Lieutenant; "I like your sangfroid. The 
palace is a devil of a dull place, and a new face is a positive 
relief. I suppose you know that affairs here are bad; no honesty 
anywhere. Everybody has his hands tied. The students know this, 
and do as they please. Think of two hundred gendarmes in the 
city, and an affair like this takes place without one of them 
turning up!

"I tell you frankly that it is all I can do to withhold the edge 
of my saber when I meet those students. Last night they held a 
noisy flambeau procession around the Hohenstaufenplatz, knowing 
full well that the king had had another stroke and quiet was 
necessary. They would have waked the dead. I have an idea that I 
forgot to use the flat of my sword; at least, the hospital 
report confirms my suspicions. Ah, here comes Max."

"Her Royal Highness desires to thank Monsieur Carewe, and 
commands that he be brought to her carriage."

Lieutenant von Mitter smiled, and Maurice stood up and brushed 
himself. The troopers sprang into the saddle and started on a 
walk, with Maurice bringing up behind on foot. The thought of 
meeting the princess, together with his recent exertions, 
created havoc with his nerves. When he arrived at the royal 
carriage, his usual coolness forsook him. He fumbled with his 
hat, tongue-tied. He stood in the Presence.

"Monsieur," said the Voice, "I thank you with all my heart for 
your gallant service. Poor, poor dog!"

"It was nothing, your Highness; any man would have done the same 
thing." The red in the wheel-spokes bothered his eyes.

"No, no! you must not belittle it."

"If it had not been for Lieutenant von Mitter--"

"Whither were you going, Monsieur?" interrupted the Voice.

"Nowhere; that is, I was going toward my hotel."

"The Continental?"

"Yes, your Highness."

"Step into the carriage, Monsieur;" the Voice had the ring of 
command. "I will put you down there. It is the least that I can 
do to show my gratitude."

"I--I to ride with your Highness?" he stammered. "O, no! I--that 
is--it would scarcely be--"

"You are not afraid of me, Monsieur?" with a smile which, though 
it had a bit of the rogue in it, was rather sad. She moved to 
the other side of the seat and put the dog on the rug at her 
feet. "Perhaps you are proud? Well, Monsieur, I too am proud; so 
proud that I promise never to forgive you if you refuse to 
gratify my wish."

"I was not thinking of myself, your Highness, or rather I was. I 
am not presentable. Look at me; my hat is out of shape, my 
clothes dusty, and I dare say that my face needs washing."

The Presence replied to this remarkable defense with laughter, 
laughter in which Maurice detected an undercurrent of 
bitterness.

"Monsieur Carewe, you are not acquainted with affairs in 
Bleiberg, or you would know that I am a nobody. When I pass 
through the streets I attract little attention, I receive no 
homage. Enter: I command it."

"If your Highness commands--"

"I do command it," imperiously. "And you would have pleased me 
more fully if you had accepted the invitation and not obeyed the 
command."

"I withdraw all objections," he said hastily, "and accept the 
invitation."

"That is better," the Voice said.

Maurice, still uncovered, sat down on the front seat.

"Not there, Monsieur; beside me. Etiquette does not permit you 
to ride in front of me."

As he took the vacant place beside her he felt a fire in his 
cheeks. The Voice and Presence were disquieting. As the groom 
touched the horses, Maurice was sensible of her sleeve against 
his, and he drew away. The Presence appeared unmindful.

"And you recognize me?" she asked.

"Yes, your Highness." He tried to remember what he had said to 
her that day in the archbishop's garden. Two or three things 
came back and the color remounted his cheeks.

"Have you forgotten what you said to me?"

"I dare say I was impertinent," vaguely.

"Ah, you have forgotten, then!"

In all his life he never felt so ill at ease. To what did she 
refer? That he would be proud to be her friend? That if the 
princess was as beautiful as the maid he could pass judgment?

"Yes, you have forgotten. Do you not remember that you offered 
to be my friend?" She read him through and through, his 
embarrassment, the tell-tale color in his cheeks. She laughed, 
and there was nothing but youth in the laughter. "Certainly you 
are afraid of me."

"I confess I am," he said. "I can not remember all I said to you."

Suddenly she, too, remembered something, and it caused the red 
of the rose to ripple from her throat to her eyes. "Poor dog! 
Not that they hated him, but because I love him!" Tears started 
to her eyes. "See, Monsieur Carewe; princesses are human, they 
weep and they love. Poor dog! My playmate and my friend. But for 
you they might have killed him. Tell me how it happened." She 
knew, but she wanted to hear the story from his own lips.

His narrative was rather disjointed, and he slipped in von 
Mitter as many times as possible, thinking to do that individual 
a good turn. Perhaps she noticed it, for at intervals she smiled.
During the telling he took out his handkerchief, wiped the 
dog's head with it, and wound it tightly about the injured leg. 
The dog knew; he wagged his tail.

How handsome and brave, she thought, as she observed the face in 
profile. Not a day had passed during the fortnight gone that she 
had not conjured up some feature of that intelligent countenance;
sometimes it had been the eyes, sometimes the chin and mouth, 
sometimes the shapely head. It was wrong; but this little sin 
was so sweet. She had never expected to see him again. He had 
come and gone, and she had thought that the beginning and the 
end. Ah, if only she were not a princess! If only some hand 
would sweep aside those insurmountable barriers called birth and 
policy! To be free, to be the mistress of one's heart, one's 
dreams, one's desires!

"And you did it all alone," she said, softly; "all alone."

"O, I had the advantage; I was not expected. It was all over 
before they knew what had happened."

"And you had the courage to take a poor dog's part? Did you know 
whose dog it was?"

"Yes, your Highness, I recognized him."

A secret gladness stole into her heart, and to cover the flame 
which again rose to her cheeks, she bent and smoothed the dog's 
head. This gave Maurice an opportunity to look at her. What a 
beautiful being she was! He was actually sitting beside her, 
breathing the same air, listening to her voice. She exhaled a 
delicate perfume such as incorporates itself in persons of high 
degree and becomes a natural emanation, an incense vague and 
indescribable. He felt that he was gazing on the culmination of 
youth, beauty, and elegance. . . Yes, Fitzgerald was right. To 
beggar one's self for love; honor and life, and all to the winds 
if only love remained.

Presently she straightened, and he centered his gaze on the back 
of the groom.

"Monsieur, place your hat upon your head," smiling. "We have 
entered the Strasse, and I should not like to embarrass you with 
the attention of the citizens."

He put on his hat. The impulse came to tell her all that he knew 
in regard to the kingdom's affairs; but his voice refused its 
offices. Besides, it was too late; the carriage was rolling into 
the Platz, and in a moment more it drew up before the terrace of 
the Continental Hotel. Maurice stepped out and bared his head.

"This evening, Monsieur, at nine, I shall expect to see you at 
the archbishop's reception to the corps diplomatique." A hand 
was extended toward him. He did not know what to do about it. "I 
am offering you my hand to kiss, Monsieur Carewe; it is a 
privilege which I do not extend to all."

As he touched it to his lips, he was sure that a thousand pairs 
of eyes were centered on him. The truth is, there were less than 
one hundred. It was the first time in many months that the Crown 
Princess had stopped before the Continental Hotel. To the guests 
it was an event; and some even went as far as to whisper that 
the handsome young man was Prince Frederick, incognito.

"God save your Royal Highness," said Maurice, at loss for other 
words. He released her hand and stepped back.

"Until this evening, then, Monsieur;" and the royal barouche 
rolled away.

"Who loves me, loves my dog," said Maurice, as he sped to his 
room.




CHAPTER XV


IN WHICH FORTUNE BECOMES CARELESS AND PRODIGAL

On the night prior to the arrival of Maurice in Bleiberg, there 
happened various things of moment.

At midnight the chancellor left the palace, after having 
witnessed from a window the meeting of the cuirassiers and the 
students, and sought his bed; but his sleep was burdened with 
troubled dreams. The clouds, lowering over his administration, 
thickened and darkened. How many times had he contemplated 
resigning his office, only to put aside the thought and toil on?

Defeat in the end was to be expected, but still there was ever 
that star of hope, a possible turn in affairs which would carry 
him on to victory. Victory is all the sweeter when it seems 
impossible. Prince Frederick had disappeared, no one knew where, 
the peasant girl theory could no longer be harbored, and the 
wedding was but three days hence. The Englishman had not stepped 
above the horizon, and the telegrams to the four ends of the 
world returned unanswered. Thus, the chancellor stood alone; the 
two main props were gone from under. As he tossed on his pillows 
he pondered over the apparent reticence and indifference of the 
archbishop.

All was still in the vicinity of the palaces. Sentinels paced 
noiselessly within the enclosures. In the royal bedchamber the 
king was resting quietly, and near by, on a lounge, the state 
physician dozed. The Captain of the household troop of 
cuirassiers nodded in the ante-room.

Only the archbishop remained awake. He sat in his chamber and 
wrote. Now and then he would moisten his lips with watered wine. 
Sometimes he held the pen in midair, and peered into the 
shapeless shadows cast by the tapers, his broad forehead shining 
and deep furrows between his eyes. On, on he wrote. Perhaps the 
archbishop was composing additional pages to his memoirs, for 
occasionally his thin lips relaxed into an impenetrable smile.

There was little quiet in the lower town, especially in the 
locality of the university. Old Stuler's was filled with smoke, 
students and tumult. Ill feeling ran high. There were many 
damaged heads, for the cuirassiers had not been niggard with 
their sabers.

A student walked backward and forward on the stage, waving 
wildly with his hands to command attention. It was some time 
before he succeeded.

"Fellow-students, brothers of freedom and comrades," he began. 
"All this must come to an end, and that at once. Our personal 
liberty is endangered. Our rights are being trodden under foot. 
Our ancient privileges are being laughed at. It must end." This 
declaration was greeted by shouts, sundry clattering of pewter 
lids and noisy rappings of earthenware on the tables. "Have we 
no rights as students? Must we give way to a handful of beggarly 
mercenaries? Must we submit to the outlawing of our customs and 
observances? What! We must not parade because the king does not 
like to be disturbed? And who are the cuirassiers?" Nobody 
answered. Nobody was expected to answer. "They are Frenchmen of 
hated memory--Swiss, Prussians, with Austrian officers. Are we 
or are we not an independent state? If independent, shall we 
stand by and see our personal liberties restricted? No! I say no!

"Let us petition to oust these vampires, who not only rob us of 
our innocent amusements, but who are fed by our taxes. What 
right had Austria to dictate our politics? What right had she to 
disavow the blood and give us these Osians? O, my brothers, 
where are the days of Albrecht III of glorious memory? He 
acknowledged our rights. He was our lawful sovereign. He 
understood and loved us." This burst of sentiment was slightly 
exaggerative, if the history of that monarch is to be relied on; 
but the audience was mightily pleased with this recollection. It 
served to add to their distemper and wrath against the Osian 
puppet. "And where are our own soldiers, the soldiers of the 
kingdom? Moldering away in the barracks, unnoticed and forgotten.
For the first time in the history of the country foreigners 
patrol the palaces. Our soldiers are nobodies. They hold no 
office at court save that of Marshal, and his voice is naught. 
Yet the brunt of the soldier's life falls on them. They watch at 
the frontiers, tireless and vigilant, while the mercenaries riot 
and play. Brothers, the time has come for us to act. The army is 
with us, and so are the citizens. Let ours be the glory of 
touching the match. We are brave and competent. We are drilled. 
We lack not courage. Let us secretly arm and watch for the 
opportunity to strike a blow for our rights. Confusion to the 
Osians, and may the duchess soon come into her own!"

He jumped from the stage, and another took his place; the 
haranguing went on. The orators were serious and earnest; they 
believed themselves to be patriots, pure and simple, when in 
truth they were experiencing the same spirit of revolt as the 
boy whose mother had whipped him for making an unnecessary noise,
or stealing into the buttery.

While the excitement was at its height, a man, somewhat older 
than the majority of the students, entered the bar-room from the 
street, and lounged heavily against the railing. His clothes 
were soiled and wrinkled, blue circles shadowed his eyes, which 
were of dull jet, the corners of his mouth drooped dejectedly, 
and his oily face, covered with red stubble, gave evidences of a 
prolonged debauch.

"Wine, Stuler, wine!" he called, laying down a coin, which 
gleamed dimly yellow in the opalescent light. "And none of your 
devilish vinegars and scums."

Stuler pounced on the coin and rubbed it between his palms. 
"Gold, Johann, gold?"

"Aye, gold; and the last of a pocketful, curse it! What's this 
noise about?" with a gesture, toward the hall.

"The boys were in the Platz and had a brush with those damned 
cuirassiers. They'll play a harder game yet." Stuler always took 
sides with the students, on business principles; they 
constituted his purse. "Tokayer?"

"No; champagne. Aye, these damned cuirassiers shall play a hard 
game ere the week is done, or my name is not Johann Kopf. They 
kicked me out of the palace grounds yesterday; me, me, me!" 
hammering the oak with his fist.

"Who?"

"Von Mitter, the English-bred dog! I'll kill him one of these 
days. Is it play to-night, or are they serious?" nodding again 
toward the hall.

"Go in," said Stuler, "and look at some of those heads; a look 
will answer the purpose."

Johann followed this advice. The picture he saw was one which 
agreed with the idea that had come into his mind. He returned to 
the bar-room. and drank his wine thirstily, refilled the glass 
and emptied it. Stuler shook his head. Johann was in a bad way 
when he gulped wine instead of sipping it. Yet it was always so 
after a carouse.

"Where have you been keeping yourself the past week?" he asked. 
If the students were his purse, Johann was his budget of news.

"You ask that?" surlily. "You knew I had money; you knew that I 
was off somewhere spending it--God knows where, I don't. Another 
bottle of wine. There's enough left from the gold to pay for it."

Stuler complied. Johann's thirst seemed in no way assuaged; but 
soon the sullen expression, the aftermath of his spree, was 
replaced by one of reckless jollity. His eyes began to sparkle.

"A great game, Stuler; they're playing a great game, and you and 
I will be in at the reaping. The town is quiet, you say? The 
troops have ceased murmuring, eh? A lull that comes before the 
storm. And when it breaks--and break it will!--gay times for you 
and me. There will be sacking. I have the list of those who lean 
toward the Osians. There will be loot, old war dog!"

Stuler smiled indulgently; Johann was beginning to feel the wine.
Perhaps he was to learn something. "Yes, 'twill be a glorious 
day."

"A week hence, and the king goes forth a bankrupt."

"If he lives," judiciously.

"Dead or alive, it matters not which; he goes."

"And the wedding? What is it I hear about Prince Frederick and 
the peasant girl?"

Johann laughed. "There will be no wedding."

"And the princess?"

"A pretty morsel, a tidbit for the king that is to be."

"The king that--eh, Johann, are you getting drunk so soon?" 
Stuler exclaimed. "I know of no king--"

Johann reached over and caught the innkeeper's wrist. The grasp 
was no gentle one. "Listen, that was a slip of the tongue. 
Repeat it, and that for your life! Do you understand, my friend?"

"Gott in--"

"Do you understand?" fiercely.

"Yes, yes!" Stuler wiped his face with his apron.

"Good, if you understand. It was naught but a slip of the tongue,"
nonchalantly. "In a little week, my friend, your till will 
have no vulgar silver in it; gold, yellow gold."

"And the duchess?" with hesitance. The budget of news to-night 
was not of the usual kind.

Johann did not answer, save by a shrug.

The perturbation of the old man was so manifestly beyond control 
that he could not trust his legs. He dropped on the stool, 
giving his grizzled head a negative shake. "I would that you had 
made no slip of the tongue, Johann," he murmured. "Gott, what is 
going on? The princess was not to wed, to be sure, but the 
duchess passed --a king besides--"

"Silence!" enjoined Johann. "Stuler, I am about to venture on a 
daring enterprise, which, if successful, will mean plenty of 
gold. Come with me into your private office, where we shall not 
be interrupted nor overheard." He vaulted the bar. Stuler looked 
undecided. "Come!" commanded Johann. With another shake of his 
head Stuler took down the tallow dip, unlocked the door, and 
bade Johann pass in. He caught up another bottle and glass and 
followed. Without a word he filled the glass and set it down 
before Johann, who raised it and drank, his beady eyes flashing 
over the rim of the glass and compelling the innkeeper to 
withdraw his gaze.

"Well?" said Stuler, uneasily.

"I need you." Johann finished his glass with moderate slowness. 
"Your storehouse on the lake is empty?"

"Yes, but--"

"I shall want it, two nights from this, in case Madame the 
duchess does not conquer the Englishman. I shall want two 
fellows who will ask no questions, but who will follow my 
instructions to the letter. It is an abduction."

"A nasty business," was Stuler's comment. "You have women to 
thank for your present occupation, Johann."

"Stuler, you are a fool. It is not a woman; it is a crown."

"Eh?" Stuler's eyes bulged.

"A crown. The duchess may remain a duchess. Who is master in 
Bleiberg to-day? At whose word the army moves or stands? At 
whose word the Osians fall or reign? On whom does the duchess 
rely? Who is king in deed, if not in fact? Who will find means 
to liquidate the kingdom's indebtedness, whoever may be the 
creditor? Pah! the princess may marry, but the groom will not be 
Prince Frederick. The man she will marry will be the husband of 
a queen, and he will be a king behind a woman's skirts. It is 
what the French call a coup d'etat. She will be glad to marry; 
there is no alternative. She will submit, if only that her 
father may die in peace."

"And this king?" in a whisper.

"You are old, Stuler; you remember many things of the past. Do 
you recollect a prince of a noble Austrian house by the name of 
Walmoden, once an aide to the emperor, who was cashiered from 
the army and exiled for corresponding with France?"

Stuler's hand shook as he brushed his forehead. "Yes, I 
recollect. He fought against the Prussians in the Franco-
Prussian war, then disappeared, to be heard of again as living 
in a South American republic. But what has he to do with all 
this? Ah, Johann, this is deep water."

"For those who have not learned to swim. You will aid me? A 
thousand crowns--two hundred pieces of gold like that which has 
just passed from my pocket into yours. It is politics."

"But the sacking of the town?"

"A jest. If Madame the duchess conquers the Englishman, the king 
that is to be will pay her. Then, if she wages war Austria can 
say nothing for defending ourselves."

"And Walmoden?" Stuler struck his forehead with his fist as if 
to pound it into a state of lucidity. "Where is he? It is a 
stone wall; I can see nothing."

"Beauvais."

"Beauvais!" Stuler half rose from his chair, but sank again.

"Exactly. This play, for some reason unexplained, is the price 
of his reestablishment into the graces of the noble Hapsburgs. 
Between us, I think the prince is playing a game for himself. 
But who shall blame him?"

"The devil! I thought Austria was very favorable to the Osian 
house."

"Favorable or not, it is nothing to us."

"Well, well, it's a thousand crowns," philosophically.

"That's the sentiment," laughed Johann. "It is not high treason, 
it is not lese majeste; it is not a crime; it is a thousand 
crowns. Votre sante, as the damned French say!" swallowing what 
was left of the wine. "And then, it is purely patriotic in us," 
with a deceitful smile.

"The storehouse is yours, and the men. Now tell me how 'tis to 
be played."

"Where does her Royal Highness go each Thursday evening, 
accompanied by her eternal cuirassiers, von Mitter and 
Scharfenstein?"

"Where but to see her old nurse Elizabeth? But two men will not 
be enough. Von Mitter and Scharfenstein--"

"Will as usual remain at the carriage. But what's to prevent the 
men from gaining entrance by the rear?--carrying off her 
Highness that way, passing through the alley and making off, to 
be a mile away before the cuirassiers even dream of the attempt?"

"After all, I'd rather the duchess."

"We can not all be kings and queens." Johann got up and slapped 
Stuler familiarly on the shoulder. "Forget not the gold, the 
yellow gold; little heaps of it to finger, to count, and to 
spend."

Stuler's eyes gleamed phosphorescently. There was the strain of 
the ancient marauder in his veins; gold easily gotten. He opened 
the door, and Johann passed out, swaying. The wine was taking 
hold of him. He turned into the hall, while Stuler busied 
himself with the spigots. Some one discovered the spy, and 
called him by name; it was caught up by others, and there were 
numerous calls for a speech.

As a socialist Johann was well known about the lower town. 
Besides, five years gone, he himself had been a student and a 
brother of freedom. He had fought a dozen successful duels, and 
finally had been expelled from the university for beating a 
professor who had objected to his conduct in the presence of 
ladies. Other ill reports added to his popularity. To be popular 
in this whimsical world of ours, one has either to be very good 
or very bad. Johann was not unwilling to speak. Stuler had given 
him the cue; the cuirassiers. His advice was secretly to arm and 
hold in readiness. As this was the substance of the other 
speeches, Johann received his meed of applause.

"And let us not forget the bulldog; let us kill him, too," cried 
one of the auditors; "the prodigal bulldog, who has lived on our 
fatted calves."

This was unanimously adopted. The bulldog was not understood; 
and he smacked of the English. Then, too, the bulldog roamed too 
freely in the royal enclosures; and, until late years, 
trespassers fared badly. The students considered that their 
privileges extended everywhere; the dog, not being conversant 
with these privileges, took that side which in law is called the 
benefit of a doubt.

After his speech Johann retired to the bar-room. What he desired 
most of all was a replenished purse. Popular he was; but the 
students knew his failings, among which stood prominently that 
of a forgetful borrower. They would buy him drinks, clothes and 
food, if need be, but they would not lend him a stiver. And he 
could not borrow from Stuler, whose law was only to trust. 
Johann gambled, and wine always brought back the mad fever for 
play. The night before he had lost rather heavily, and he wanted 
to recover his losses. Rouge-et-noir had pinched him; he would 
be revenged on the roulette. All day long combinations and 
numbers danced before his eyes. He had devised several plans by 
which to raise money, but these had fallen through. Suddenly he 
smiled, and beckoned to Stuler.

"Stuler, how much will you advance me," he asked, "on a shotgun 
worth one hundred crowns?"

"A shotgun worth one hundred crowns? Ten."

Johann made a negative gesture. "Fifty or none. You can sell it 
for seventy-five in the morning. So could I, only I want the 
money to-night."

"If you want wine--" began Stuler.

"I want money."

Stuler scratched his nose. "Bring the gun to me. If it is worth 
what you say, I'll see what I can do."

"In an hour;" and Johann went out. A cold thin rain was falling, 
and a dash of it in the face had a cooling effect. Somehow, the 
exhilaration of the wine was gone, and his mood took a sullen 
turn. Money! he was ever in need of money. He cursed his ill 
luck. He cursed the cause of it--drink. But for drink he would 
not have been plain Johann Kopf, brawler, outcast, spy, disowned 
by his family and all save those who could use him. He remained 
standing in the doorway, brooding.

At last he drew his collar about his throat and struck off, a 
black shadow in a bank of gray. When he reached that part of the 
street opposite the Grand Hotel, he stopped and sought shelter 
under an awning. The night patrol came clattering down the 
street. It passed quickly, and soon all was still again. Johann 
stepped out and peered up and down. The street was deserted. All 
the hotel windows were in gloom, save a feeble light which 
beamed from the office windows.

Would it be robbery? He had not yet stooped to that. But he 
could hear the ivory ball clatter as it fell into the lucky 
numbers. He had a premonition that he would win if he stuck to a 
single combination. He would redeem the gun, replace it, and no 
one would be any the wiser. If his numbers failed him. . . . . 
No matter. He determined to cross the Rubicon. He traversed the 
street and disappeared into the cavernous alley, shortly to loom 
up in the deserted courtyard of the hotel. He counted the 
windows on the first floor and stopped at the fourth. That was 
the window he must enter. Noiselessly he crept along the walls, 
stopping now and then to listen. There was no sound except the 
monotonous dripping of the rain, which was growing thinner and 
colder.

Presently he came across the ladder he was seeking. He raised it 
to the required height, and once more placed his hand to his ear.
Silence. He mounted the rounds to the window, which he found 
unfastened. In another moment he was in the room. Not an object 
could he see, so deep was the darkness. If he moved without 
light he was likely to stumble, and heydey to his fifty crowns, 
not to say his liberty for many days to come. He carefully drew 
the blinds and struck a match. The first object which met his 
gaze was a fallen candle. This he lit and when the glare of the 
flame softened, all the corners of the room stood out. Nowhere 
was there any sign of a gun. He gave vent to a half-muttered 
curse. Some one had pilfered the gun, or the proprietor was 
keeping it until the Englishman returned from the duchy. But he 
remembered that there were two guns, one of which the Englishman 
did not use in the hunting expeditions.

So he began a thorough search. It meant fifty crowns, green 
baize and the whims of fortune. Cautiously he moved between the 
fallen chairs. He looked behind the bed, under the dresser, but 
without success. His hand closed savagely around the candle, and 
he swore inaudibly. He threw back the bed coverings, not that he 
expected to find anything, but because he could vent his rage on 
these silent, noiseless things. When he lifted the mattress it 
was then he took a deep breath and smiled. What he saw was a gun 
case. He drew it from under. It was heavy; his fifty crowns were 
inside. Next he picked up a candlestick and stuffed the candle 
into it, and laid a quilt against the threshold of the door so 
that no light would pierce the corridor.

"This is the gun the Englishman did not use in the hunting 
expeditions," he thought. "If it is out of repair, as he said it 
was, my fifty crowns are not so many pfennige. The devil! it 
must be a valuable piece of gunsmithing, to hide it under the 
bedclothes. Let me see if my crowns are for the picking."

He investigated forthwith. The hammers and the triggers worked 
smoothly. He unlocked the breech and held the nozzles toward the 
candle light --and again cursed. The barrels were clogged up. 
Notwithstanding, he plucked forth the cleaning-rod and forced it 
into one of the tubes. There was a slight resistance, and 
something fluttered to the floor and rolled about. The second 
tube was treated likewise, with the same result. Johann laughed 
silently. The fifty crowns were tangible; he could hear them 
jingling in his pocket, and a pretty music they made. He 
returned the leather case to its original place and devoted his 
attention to the cylinder-shaped papers on the floor.

For a quarter of an hour Johann remained seated on the floor, in 
the wavering candle light, forgetful of all save the delicate 
tracings of steel engraving, the red and green inks, the great 
golden seal, the signatures, the immensity of the ciphers which 
trailed halfway across each crackling parchment. He counted 
sixteen of them in all. Four millions of crowns. . . . He was 
rich, rich beyond all his wildest dreams.

He rose, and restored the gun to its case. Fifty crowns? No, no! 
A hundred thousand, not a crown less; a hundred thousand! all 
thoughts of the green baize and the rattle of the roulette ball 
passed away. There was no need to seek fortune; she had come to 
him of her own free will. Wine, Gertrude of the opera, Paris and 
a life of ease; all these were his. A hundred thousand crowns, a 
hundred thousand florins, two hundred thousand francs, two 
hundred thousand marks! He computed in all monetary 
denominations; in all countries it was wealth.

Something rose and swelled in his throat, and he choked 
hysterically. A voice whispered "No, not a hundred thousand; 
four millions!" But reason, though it tottered, regained its 
balance, and he saw the utter futility of attempting to dispose 
of the orders on the government independently. His hands 
trembled; he could scarcely hold this vast treasure. Twice, in 
his haste to pocket the certificates, they slipped from his 
grasp and scattered. How those six syllables frolicked in his 
mind! A hundred thousand crowns!

He extinguished the candle and laid it on the floor, put the 
quilt on the bed, then climbed through the window, which he 
closed without mishap. He descended the ladder. As he reached 
the bottom round his heart gave a great leap. From the alley 
came the sound of approaching steps. Nearer and nearer they came;
a shadow entered the courtyard and made straight for the door, 
which was but a few feet from the reclining ladder. The kitchen 
door opened and the burst of light revealed a belated serving 
maid. A moment passed, and all became dark again. But Johann 
felt a strange weakness in his knees, and a peculiar thrill at 
the roots of his hair. He dared not move for three or four 
minutes. But he waited in vain for other steps. He cursed the 
serving maid for the fright, disposed of the ladder, and sought 
the street. He directed his steps toward Stuler's.

"The pig of an Englishman was deeper than I thought. In the gun 
barrels, the gun barrels! If I had not wanted to play they would 
have been there yet! A hundred thousand crowns!"

It had ceased to rain, and a frost was congealing the moisture 
under foot. On the way back to Stuler's Johann slipped and fell 
several times; but he was impervious to pain, bruises were 
nothing. He was rich! He laughed; and from time to time thrust 
his hand into his vest to convince himself that he was not 
dreaming. To whom should he sell? To the Osians? To the duchess? 
To the king that was to be? Who would pay quickest the hundred 
thousand crowns? He knew. Aye, two hundred thousand would not be 
too much. The Englishman would send for the certificates, but 
his agent would not find them. The abduction? He would carry it 
through as he had promised. It was five thousand crowns in 
addition to his hundred thousand. He was rich! He shook his hand 
toward the inky sky, toward the palace, toward all that 
signified the past . . . . . A hundred thousand crowns!




CHAPTER XVI


WHAT HAPPENED AT THE ARCHBISHOP'S PALACE AND AFTER

Maurice, as he labored before his mirror, wondered why in the 
world it took him so long to dress. An hour had passed since he 
began his evening toilet; yet here he was, still tinkering, so 
to speak, over the last of a dozen cravats. The eleven others 
lay strewn about, hopelessly crumpled; mute witnesses of angry 
fingers and impassioned mutterings. Usually he could slip into 
his evening clothes in less than thirty minutes. Something was 
wrong. But perhaps this occasion was not usual.

First, the hems of his trousers were insurgent; they persisted 
in hitching on the tops of his button shoes. Laces were 
substituted. Then came a desultory period, during which gold 
buttons were exchanged for pearl and pearl for gold, and two-
button shirts for three-button. For Maurice was something of a 
dandy. He could not imagine what was the matter with his neck, 
all the collars seemed so small. For once his mishaps did not 
appeal to his humor. The ascent from his shoes to his collar was 
as tortuous as that of the alpine Jungfrau.

Ah, Madam, you may smile as much as you please, but it is a 
terrible thing for a man to dress and at the same time think 
kindly of his fellow-beings. You set aside three hours for your 
toilet, and devote two hours to the little curl which droops 
over the tip of your dainty ear; but with a man who has no curl, 
who knows nothing of the practice of smiles and side glances, 
the studied carelessness of a pose, it is a dismal, serious 
business up to the last moment.

With a final glance into the mirror, and convinced that if he 
touched himself it would be only to disarrange the perfection 
which he had striven so hard to attain, Maurice went down stairs.
He had still an hour to while away before presenting himself at 
the archbishop's palace. So he roamed about the verandas, 
twirled his cane, and smoked like a captain who expects to see 
his men in active engagement the very next moment. This, 
together with the bad hour in his room, was an indication that 
his nerves were finely strung.

He was nervous, not because he was to see strange faces, not 
because his interest in the kingdom's affairs was both comic and 
tragic, nor because he was to present himself at the 
archbishop's in a peculiar capacity, that of a prisoner on 
parole. No, it was due to none of these. His pulse did not stir 
at the prospect of meeting the true king. Diplomatic functions 
were every-day events with him. He had passed several years of 
his life in the vicinity of emperors, kings, viceroys, and 
presidents, and their greatness had long ago ceased to interest 
or even to amuse him. He was conscious only of an agitation 
which had already passed through the process of analysis. He 
loved, he loved the impossible and the unattainable, and it was 
the exhilaration of this thought that agitated him. He never 
would be the same again-- he would be better. Neither did he 
regret this love.

Even now he could see himself back in his rooms in Vienna, 
smoking before the fire, and building castles that tumbled down. 
It was worth while, if only to have something to dream about. He 
did not regret the love, he regretted its futility. How could he 
serve her? What could he do against all these unseen forces 
which were crumbling her father's throne? So she remembered what 
he had said to her in the archbishop's garden? He looked at his 
watch. It was nine.

"Let us be off," he said. He started for the Platz. "How 
uncertain life is. It seems that I did not come to Bleiberg 
carelessly in the way of amusement, but to work out a part of my 
destiny." He arrested his steps at the fountain and listened to 
the low, musical plash of the water, each drop of which fell 
with the light of a dazzling jewel. The cold stars shone from 
above. They were not farther away than she. A princess, a lonely 
and forlorn princess, hemmed in by the fabric of royal laws; a 
princess yet possessing less liberty than the meanest of her 
peasants. Nothing belonged to her, not even her heart, which was 
merchandise, a commodity of exchange, turned over to the highest 
bidder. "Royalty," he mused, "is a political slave-dealer; the 
slaves are those who wear the crowns."

Once inside the palace, he became a man of the world, polished, 
nonchalant, handsome, and mildly curious. Immediately after the 
usher announced his name, he crossed the chamber and presented 
his respects to the prelate, who, he reasoned not unwisely, 
expected him. The friendly greeting of the archbishop confirmed 
this reasoning.

"I am delighted to see you, Monsieur," he said, showing his 
remarkably well preserved teeth in the smile that followed his 
words. "A service to her Royal Highness is a service to me. 
Amuse yourself; you will find some fine paintings in the west 
gallery."

"I trust her Royal Highness is none the worse for the fright," 
Maurice replied. He also remarked (mentally) that he did not see 
her Highness anywhere. Several introductions followed, and he 
found himself chatting with the British minister.

"Carewe?" the Englishman repeated thoughtfully. "Are you not 
Maurice Carewe, of the American Legation in Vienna?"

"Yes."

"May I ask you a few questions?"

"A thousand."

"A fellow-countryman of mine has mysteriously disappeared. He 
left Vienna for Bleiberg, saying that if nothing was heard of 
him within a week's time, to make inquiries about him. This 
request was left with the British ambassador, who has just 
written me, adding that a personal friend of the gentleman in 
question was in Bleiberg, and that this friend was Maurice 
Carewe, attache to the American Legation. Are you acquainted 
with Lord Fitzgerald, son of my late predecessor?"

"I am indeed. I saw him in Vienna," said Maurice; "but he said 
nothing to me about coming here," which was true enough. "Is 
there any cause for apprehension?"

"Only his request to be looked up within a certain time. The 
truth is, he was to have come here on a peculiar errand," with 
lowered voice. "Did you ever hear of what is called 
'Fitzgerald's folly?'"

"Yes; few haven't heard of it." Maurice could never understand 
why he resisted the impulse to tell the whole affair. A dozen 
words to the man at his side, and the catastrophes, even 
embryonic, would be averted. "You must tell me who most of these 
people are," he said, in order to get around a disagreeable 
subject. "I am a total stranger."

"With pleasure. That tall, angular old man, in the long, gray 
frock, with decorations, is Marshal Kampf. You must meet him; he 
is the wittiest man in Bleiberg. The gentleman with the red 
beard is Mollendorf of the police. And beside him--yes, the 
little man with glasses and a loose cravat--is Count von 
Wallenstein, the minister of finance. That is the chancellor 
talking to the archbishop. Ah, Mr. Carewe, these receptions are 
fine comedies. The Marshal, the count and Mollendorf represent 
what is called the Auersperg faction under the rose. It is a 
continual battle of eyes and tongues. One smiles at his enemy, 
knows him to be an enemy, yet dares not touch him.

"Confidentially, this play has never had the like. To convict 
his enemies of treason has been for ten years the labor of the 
chancellor; yet, though he knows them to be in correspondence 
with the duchess, he can find nothing on the strength of which 
to accuse openly. It is a conspiracy which has no papers. One 
can not take out a man's brains and say, `Here is proof!' They 
talk, they walk on thin ice; but so fine is their craft that no 
incautious word ever falls, nor does any one go through the ice.

"I have watched the play for ten years. I should not speak to 
you about it, only it is one of those things known to all here. 
Those gentlemen talking to the chancellor's wife are the 
ministers from Austria, Prussia, France, and Servia. You will 
not find it as lively here as it is in Vienna. We meet merely to 
watch each other," with a short laugh. "Good. The Marshal is 
approaching."

They waited.

"Marshal," said the minister, "this is Monsieur Carewe, who 
rescued her Highness's dog from the students."

"Ah !" replied the Marshal, grimly. "Do not expect me to thank 
you, Monsieur; only day before yesterday the dog snapped at my 
legs. I am living out of pure spite, to see that dog die before 
I do. Peace to his ashes--the sooner the better."

The minister turned to Maurice and laughed.

"Eh!" said the Marshal.

"I prophesied that you would speak disparagingly of the dog."

"What a reputation!" cried the old soldier. "I dare say that you 
have been telling Monsieur Carewe that I am a wit. Monsieur, 
never attempt to be witty; they will put you down for a wit, and 
laugh at anything you say, even when you put yourself out to 
speak the truth. If I possess any wit it is like young grapes--
sour. You are connected in Vienna?"

"With the American Legation."

"Happy is the country," said the Marshal, "which is so far away 
that Europe can find no excuse to meddle with it."

"And even then Europe would not dare," Maurice replied, with 
impertinence aforethought.

"That is not a diplomatic speech."

"It is true."

"I like your frankness."

"Let that go toward making amends for saving the dog."

"Are all American diplomats so frank?" inquired the Marshal, 
with an air of feigned wonder.

"Indeed, no," answered Maurice. "Just at present I am not in a 
diplomatic capacity; I need not look askance at truth. And there 
is no reason why we should not always be truthful."

"You are wrong. It's truth's infrequency which makes her so 
charming and refreshing. However, I thank you for your services 
to her Highness; your services to her dog I shall try to forget."
And with this the Marshal moved away, shaking his head as if 
he had inadvertently stumbled on an intricate problem.

Not long after, Maurice was left to his own devices. He viewed 
the scene, silent and curious. Conversation was carried on in 
low tones, and laughter was infrequent and subdued. The women 
dressed without ostentation. There were no fair arms and necks. 
Indeed, these belong wholly to youth, and youth was not a factor 
at the archbishop's receptions. Most of the men were old and 
bald, and only the wives of the French and British ministers 
were pretty or young. How different from Vienna, where youth and 
beauty abound! There were no music, no long tables of 
refreshments, no sparkling wines, no smoking-room, good stories 
and better fellowship. There was an absence of the flash of 
jewels and color which make court life attractive.

There seemed to be hanging in the air some invisible power, the 
forecast of a tragedy, the beginning of an unknown end. And yet 
the prelate smiled on enemies and friends alike. As Maurice 
observed that smile he grew perplexed. It was a smile such as he 
had seen on the faces of men who, about to die, felt the grim 
satisfaction of having an enemy for company. The king lay on his 
death bed, in all probabilities the throne tottered; yet the 
archbishop smiled.

The princess did not know that her father was dying; this was a 
secret which had not yet been divulged to her. And this was the 
only society she knew. Small wonder that she was sad and lonely. 
To be young, and to find one's self surrounded by the relics of 
youth; what an existence! She had never known the beauty of a 
glittering ballroom, felt the music of a waltz mingle with the 
quick throbs of the heart, the pleasure of bestowing pleasure. 
She had never read the mute yet intelligent admiration in a 
young man's eyes. And what young woman does not yearn for the 
honest adoration of an honest man? Poor, lonely princess indeed. 
For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what 
was slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were 
sinking deeper into his heart and twining firmly about, as a 
vine to a trellis.

Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is 
affected by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we 
do not see, we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly 
became aware of that peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his 
nerves. Instinctively he turned his head. In the doorway which 
separated the chamber from the conservatory stood her Royal 
Highness. She was dressed entirely in black, which accentuated 
the whiteness--the Carrara marble whiteness--of her exquisite 
skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow lay 
the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except 
on the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that 
the faint reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before 
he reached her side.

"I was afraid," she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the 
fib, "that you would not come after all."

"It would have been impossible for me to stay away," he replied, 
his eyes ardent. The princess looked away. "And may I ask after 
the health of the dog?"

"Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog; 
he will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries 
on dumb creatures?"

"It is the beast that is envious of the brute."

"And your hand?" with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.

"My hand?"

"Yes; did you not injure it?"

"O!"	He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection.
"That was only a scratch. In fact, I do not remember which hand 
it was."

"You are very modest. I should have made much of it."

He could not translate this; so he said: "There was nothing 
injured but my hat. I seem unfortunate in that direction."

She smiled, recalling the incident in the archbishop's garden.

"I shall keep the hat, however," he said, "as a souvenir."

"Souvenirs, Monsieur," she replied carelessly, "and old age are 
synonymous. You and I ought not to have any souvenirs. Have you 
seen the picture gallery? No? Then I shall have the pleasure of 
showing it to you. Monseigneur is very proud of his gallery. He 
has a Leonardo, a Botticelli, a Murillo, and a Rembrandt. And 
they really show better in artificial light, which softens the 
effect of time."

Half an hour was passed in the gallery. It was very pleasant to 
listen to her voice as she described this and that painting, and 
the archbishop's adventures in securing them. It did not seem 
possible to him that she was a princess, perhaps destined to 
become a queen, so free was she from the attributes of royalty, 
so natural and ingenuous. He caught each movement of her 
delicate head, each gesture of her hand, the countless 
inflections of her voice, the lights which burned or died away 
in the dark wine of her eyes.

Poor devil! he mused, himself in mind; poor fool! He forgot the 
world, he forgot that he was a prisoner on parole, he forgot the 
strife between the kingdom and the duchy, he forgot everything 
but the wild impossible love which filled his senses. He forgot 
even Prince Frederick of Carnavia.

In truth, the world was "a sorry scheme of things." It was 
grotesque with inequalities. He had no right to love her; it was 
wrong to give in to the impulses of the heart, the natural, 
human impulses. A man can beat down the stone walls of a fort, 
scale the impregnable heights of a citadel, master the earth and 
the seas, but he can not surmount the invisible barriers which 
he himself erected in the past ages--the quality of birth. Ah! 
if only she had been a peasant, unlettered and unknown, and free 
to be won! The tasks of Hercules were then but play to him!

Next she led him through the aisles of potted plants in the 
conservatory. She was very learned. She explained the origin of 
each flower, its native soil, the time and manner of its 
transportation. Perhaps she was surprised at his lack of 
botanical knowledge, he asked so many questions. But it was not 
the flowers, it was her voice, which urged him to these 
interrogations.

They were on the point of re-entering the reception chamber, 
when the jingle of a spur on the mosaic floor caused them to 
turn. Maurice could not control the start; he had forgotten all 
about Beauvais. The soldier wore the regulation full dress of 
the cuirassiers, white trousers, tucked into patent leather half-
boots, a gray jacket with gold lace and decorations, red saber 
straps and a gray pelisse hanging from the left shoulder. A 
splendid soldier, Maurice grudgingly admitted. What would the 
Colonel say? The situation was humorous rather than otherwise, 
and Maurice smiled.

"I was looking for your Highness," said Beauvais, as he came up, 
"to pay my respects. I am leaving." His glance at Maurice was 
one of polite curiosity.

"Colonel Beauvais," said the princess, coldly, "Monsieur Carewe, 
of the American Legation in Vienna."

She was not looking at the Colonel, but Maurice was, and the 
Colonel's total lack of surprise astonished him. The gaze of the 
two men plunged into each other's eyes like flashes of lightning,
but that was all.

"I am charmed," said the Colonel, a half-ironical smile under 
his mustache. "Your name is not unfamiliar to me."

"No?" said Maurice, with studied politeness.

"No. It is connected with an exploit. Was it not you who faced 
the students this afternoon and rescued her Highness's dog?"

"Ah!" said Maurice, in a tone which implied that exploits were 
every day events with him; "it was but a simple thing to do. The 
students were like so many sheep."

The princess elevated her brows; she felt an undercurrent of 
something which she did not understand. Indeed, she did not like 
the manner in which the two men eyed each other. Her glance 
passed from the stalwart soldier to the slim, athletic form of 
the civilian.

Conversation drifted aimlessly. Maurice had the malice to cast 
the brunt of it on the Colonel's shoulders. The princess, like a 
rose coming in contact with a chill air, drew within herself. 
She was cold, brief, and serenely indifferent. It was evident to 
Maurice that she had resumed her royal mantle, and that she had 
shown him unusual consideration.

Presently she raised her hand to her head, as sometimes one will 
do unconsciously, and the rose slipped from her hair and dropped 
to the floor. Both men stooped. Maurice was quickest. With a bow 
he offered to return it.

"You may keep it, Monsieur;" and she laughed.

They joined her. Maurice knew why the Colonel laughed, and the 
Colonel knew why Maurice laughed; but neither could account for 
the laughter of the princess. That was her secret.

All things come to an end, even diplomatic receptions. Soon the 
guests began to leave.

Said the princess to Maurice: "Your invitation is a standing one,
Monsieur. To our friends there are no formalities. Good night; 
ah, yes, the English fashion," extending her hand, which Maurice 
barely touched. "Good night, Monsieur," to Beauvais, with one of 
those nods which wither as effectually as frost.

The Colonel bent gracefully.

"Decidedly the Colonel is not in high favor tonight," thought 
Maurice; "a fact which is eminently satisfactory to me. Ah; he 
looks as if he had something to say to me. Let us wait."

"Monsieur, have you any other engagement this evening?" asked 
Beauvais, swinging his pelisse over both shoulders. "If not, my 
rooms are quite handy. I have capital cigars and cognacs. Will 
you do me the honor? I should like to have you regale me with 
some Vienna gossip; it is so long since I was there."

"Thanks," said Maurice. "I shall be happy to smoke your cigars 
and drink your cognacs." He was in the mood for any adventure, 
comic or serious. He had an idea what the Colonel wanted to say 
to him, and he was not unwilling to listen. Besides, he had no 
fear; he now wore an amulet close to his heart.

"Come, then," said Beauvais, gaily; and the two made off. "It is 
a wonderful game of chess, this world of ours."

"Yes," said Maurice, "we do keep moving."

"And every now and then one or the other of us steps out into 
the dark."

"So we do." Maurice glanced from the corner of his eye and 
calculated his chances in a physical contest with the Colonel. 
The soldier was taller and broader, but it was possible for him 
to make good this deficiency with quickness. But, above all, 
where and under what circumstances had he met this man before?

"Here we are!" cried the Colonel, presently.

He led Maurice into one of the handsome dwellings which faced 
the palace confines from the east. They passed up the stairs 
into a large room, Oriental in its appointments, and evidently 
the living room. The walls were hung with the paraphernalia of a 
soldier, together with portraits of opera singers, horses and 
celebrities of all classes. On the mantel Maurice saw, among 
other things, the glint of a revolver barrel. He thought nothing 
of it then. It occurred to him as singular, however, that the 
room was free from central obstruction. Had the Colonel expected 
to meet him at the archbishop's and anticipated his acceptance 
of a possible invitation?

Two chairs stood on either side of the grate. Between them was 
an octagon on which were cigars, glasses and two cognac bottles. 
The Colonel's valet came in and lit the tapers in the chandelier 
and woke up the fire. . . . Maurice was convinced that the 
Colonel had arranged the room thus for his especial benefit, and 
he regretted his eagerness for adventure.

"Francois," said Beauvais, throwing his shako and pelisse on the 
lounge and motioning to Maurice to do likewise, "let no one 
disturb us."

The valet bowed and noiselessly retired. The two men sat down 
without speaking. Beauvais passed the cigars. Maurice selected 
one, lit it, and blew rings at the Chinese mandarin which leered 
down at him from the mantel.

Several minutes marched into the past.

"Maurice Carewe," said the Colonel, as one who mused.

"It is very droll," said Maurice.

"I can not say that it strikes me as droll, though I am not 
deficient in the sense of humor."

"'Twould be a pity if you were; you would miss so much. Through 
humor philosophy reaches its culmination; humor is the 
foundation upon which the palace of reason erects itself. The 
two are inseparable."

"How came you to be mixed up in this affair, which is no concern 
of yours?"

"That question is respectfully referred to Madame the duchess. I 
was thrown into it, head foremost, bound hand and foot. It was a 
clever stroke, though eventually it will embarrass her."

"You may give me the certificates," said Beauvais.

Maurice contemplated him serenely. "Impossible," with a fillip 
at the end of his cigar.

"You refuse?" coldly.

"I do not refuse. Simply, I haven't got them."

"What!" The Colonel half sprang from his chair.

His astonishment was genuine; Maurice saw that it was, and he 
reflected. Madame nor Fitzgerald had been dishonest with him.

"No. Some one has forestalled me."

"Are you lying to me?" menacingly.

"And if I were?" coolly.

Beauvais measured his antagonist, his eyes hard and contemptuous.

"I repeat," said Maurice, "the situation is exceedingly droll. I 
am not afraid of you, not a bit. I am not a man to be 
intimidated. You might have inferred as much by my willingness 
to accompany you here. I am alone with you."

"It is true that you are alone with me," in a voice, which, 
though it did not alarm Maurice, caused him to rest less 
comfortably in his chair. "In the first place, you know too much."

"The knowledge was not of my own seeking. You will agree with me 
in that." He took a swallow of the cognac. "However, since I am 
in the affair--"

"Well?"

"I'll see it to its end."

"Perhaps. We shall not cross purposes. When men plot as I do, 
they stop at nothing, not even at that infinitesimal minutiae 
called the spark of life. It becomes a matter of self-
preservation. I am in too deep water; I must keep on. I can not 
now turn back; the first shore is too far away."

"Even villainy has its inconveniences," Maurice observed.

"What do you call villainy?"

"An act in which a man accepts pay from one to ruin him for 
another. That is villainy, without a single saving grace, for 
you are a native neither of the kingdom nor the duchy."

"That is plain language. You do not take into consideration the 
villain's motives. There may be certain ends necessary as his 
life's blood, which may be gained only by villainy, which, after 
all, is a hard name for political conspiracy."

"Oh, I do not suppose you are worse than the majority. But it 
appeals to me as rather a small, unmanly game when your victims 
are a man who is dying and a girl who knows nothing of the world 
nor its treachery."

An almost imperceptible smile passed over Beauvais's countenance.
"So her Highness has captured your sympathies?" with a shade of 
banter.

"I admit that; she would capture the sympathies of any man who 
has a good pair of eyes in his head. But you do not seem to be 
in favor just at present," banter for banter.

The Colonel studied the end of his cigar. "What is to be your 
stand in this affair?"

"Neutral as possible, for the simple reason that I have passed 
my word to Madame; compulsorily, it is true; I shall abide by it.
That is not to say that my sympathies are not wholly with the 
Osians. Madame is a brilliant woman, resourceful, initiative; 
she has as many sides as a cut diamond; moreover, her cause is 
just. But I do not like the way she has gone about the recovery 
of her throne. She has broken, or will break, a fine honest 
heart; she tried to break another, but, not being above the 
pantry maid, the subject of her attention failed to appreciate 
the consideration."

Beauvais laughed at this. "You are very good company. Let me 
advise you to remain neutral. I wish you no harm. But if you 
change your mind and stand in my path--"

"Well, and if I stood in your path?"

"Pouf! you would vanish. O, I should not stoop to murder; that 
is a vulgar word and practice. I should place a sword in your 
hand and give you the preference of a gentleman's death. I see 
nothing to prevent me from carrying out that this very night," 
with a nod toward the rapiers which hung from the opposite wall.

"You might be surprised at the result," said Maurice, stretching 
his legs. "But at present I have no desire to quarrel with you, 
or to put your skill to a test. Once Madame gives me back my 
word, why, I do not say." He dipped his hand toward the ash-pan. 
"Human nature is full of freaks. A man will commit all sorts of 
crimes, yet stand by his word. Not that I have committed any 
crimes against the ten commandments."

And so they fenced.

"You picked up a rose to-night," said the Colonel.

"So I did." Maurice blew a puff of smoke into the chimneyplace 
and watched it sail upward and vanish. "Moreover, I propose to 
keep it. Have you any objections?"

"Only this: her Highness intended the rose for me."

"No, no, my friend," easily. "She would not have laughed had you 
picked it up."

"That is to say I lie?"

"It is," laconically.

There was no eluding a statement so bald as this. Beauvais sat 
upright. "To call me a liar is a privilege which I extend to no
man."

"I did not call you a liar," undisturbed. "You wrote it down
yourself, and I simply agreed to it. A duel? Well, I shall not
fight you. Dueling is obsolete, and it never demonstrated the
right or wrong of a cause. Since my part in this affair is one of
neutrality, and since to gain that knowledge was the object of
your invitation, I will take my leave of you."

He rose and looked at the porcelain clock. As he did so his gaze
rested on a small photograph standing at the side of it. He
scanned it eagerly. It was a face of dark Castilian beauty. He
turned and looked at Beauvais long and earnestly. There was an
answering gaze, an immobility of countenance. Maurice experienced
a slight shock. The haze over his memory was dispersed. The whole
scene, in which this man loomed in the foreground, came back
vividly.

"Your stare, Monsieur, is annoying."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Maurice, leaning against the
mantel. 

"Do me the honor to explain it."

Maurice, never dreaming of the trap, fell head foremost into it.
"I have traveled a good deal," he began. "I have been--even to
South America."

"Ah!" This ejaculation expressed nothing. In fact, Beavais was 
smiling. There was a sinister something behind that smile, but 
Maurice was unobservant.

He went on. "Yes, to South America. I was there in a diplomatic
capacity, during one of the many revolutions. This country was
the paradise of adventurers, the riff-raff of continental social
outcasts. I distinctly remember the leader of this revolution. Up
to the very last day, Captain Urquijo was the confidential friend
of the president whom he was about to ruin. Through the
president's beautiful daughter Urquijo picked up his threads and
laid his powder train. The woman loved him as women sometimes
love rascals. The president was to be assassinated and his rival
installed. Captain Urquijo was to be made General of the armies.

"One fine day the troops lined both sides of the plaza, the
square also about which lay the government buildings. It was the
event of some celebration; I believe the throwning off of the
yoke of Spain. The city flocked into the plaza. Strangely enough,
those who were disaffected--the soldiers under Urquijo--faced the
loyal troops. By a preconceived plan, the artillery was under the
command of Urquijo. Suddenly this Captain's murderous and
traitorous guns swept the plaza, mangling women and children.
There was a flaw, however, in the stroke. Urquijo fled, a reward
posted for his head--mind you, his head; they did not want him
alive.

"The daughter expiates her foolish love in a convent. Her
disgraces proved too much for her father, who blew out his
brains. The successor secured extradition papers in all the
leading capitals of the world. The story was the sensation of the
day; the newspapers made much of it. All governments offered to
assist the republic in hounding down this rascal. To whatever
country he belonged, that country promised to disown him."  _ .

Maurice took the photograph. and cast it into Beauvais's lap. "Do
you recognize that face? Is it not a mute accusation to your
warped conscience?" The voice, changing from the monotone of
narrative, grew strong and contemptuous. "I know you. I
recognizcd you the moment I laid eyes on you, only I could not
place you. Perhaps it was because it did not seem possible that
you would dare show your face to civilized people. That
photograph has done its work. By the Lord, but you're a fine
rascal! Not a bit changed. Have you forgotten your Spanish? As
God hears me, I shall hold you up."

"You are a very young man," said Beauvais, rising. He was still
smiling. "Do you know why I asked you here? For this very reason.
Madame divined you well. She said that you had a dash of what
romanticists call valor, but that you never saw an inch before
your nose. I knew that you would be at the archbishop's; I knew
that you would follow me to this room. Indeed, you might have
suspected as much by the unusual arrangement of the fixtures of
the room. I placed that photograph there, trusting to your rather
acute eyesight.

"My memory seems to be better than yours. I knew you the first
time I saw you in Bleiborg. I was waiting only to see how much
you had remembered. I am not Colonel Beauvais; I am not
Urquijo; I am the last of a noble Austrian house, in exile, but
on the eve of recall. Your knowledge would, of course, be
disastrous to my ambitions. That is why I wanted to find out how
much you know. You know too much, too much by half; and since you
have walked into the lion's den, you shall never leave it alive."
With this he sprang to the wall and tore down the rapiers, one of
which he flung at Maurice's feet.

Maurice felt the hand of paralysis on his nerves. He looked at 
the rapier, then at Beauvais, dazed and incapable of movement. 
It had been so sudden.

"And when they find you in some alley in the lower town they will
put it down to thieves. You are young and thoughtless," Beauvais
went on banteringly. "A little discretion and you might have gone
with a whole skin. We never forget a woman's face, and I knew
that you would not forget hers. Don't trouble yourself about
leaping through the windows; the fall will kill you less
effectually than I shall." 

Maurice pulled himself together. The prospect of death brought
back lucidity of mind. He at once saw the hopelessness of his
position. He cursed his lack of forethought. He became pale and
furious, but his head cleared. His life hung in the balance. He
now translated Beauvais's smile. 

"So you wish to add another to the list?" he said.

"To shield one crime, a man must commit many others. O, this will
not be murder. It will be a duel, in which you will have no
chance. Pick up the sword, if only for form's sake." Beauvais
caught the wrist thong of the rapier between his teeth and
rapidly divested himself of his jacket and saber straps. With his
back toward the door, he rolled up his sleeve and discovered a
formidable forearm. He tried the blade and thrust several times
into the air.

"What promise have I," said Maurice, "that you will not run me
through when I stoop for the sword?" This question did not serve.

Beauvais laughed. "I never get angry in moments like these. I am
giving you a sword to ease my conscience. I do not assassinate
boys."

"But supposing I should kill you by chance?"

Beauvais laughed again. "That is not possible."

Maurice had faced death before, but with more confidence. The
thought that he had poked his head into a trap stirred him
disagreeably. He saw that Beauvais possessed a superabundance of
confidence, and confidence is half of any battle. He picked up
the sword and held it between his knees, while he threw off his
coat and vest, and unbuttoned his collar and cuffs. What he had
to sell would be sold as dearly as possible. He tested the blade,
took in a deep breath, fell easily into position--and waited.




CHAPTER XVII.


SOME PASSAGES AT ARMS

There comes a moment to every man, who faces an imminent danger,
when the mental vision expands and he sees beyond. By this
transient gift of prescience he knows what the end will be,
whether he is to live or die. As Maurice looked into the
merciless eyes of his enemy, a dim knowledge came to him that
this was to be an event and not a catastrophe, a fragment of a
picture yet to be fully drawn. His confidence and courage
returned. He thanked God, however, that the light above equalized
their positions, and that the shadows were behind them.

The swords came together with a click light but ominous.
Immediately Beauvais stepped back, suddenly threw forward his
body, and delivered three rapid thrusts. Maurice met them firmly,
giving none.

"Ah!" cried Beauvais; "that is good. You know a little. There
will be sport, besides."

Maurice shut his lips the tighter, and worked purely on the
defensive. His fencing master had taught him two things, silence
and watchfulness. While Beauvais made use of his forearm, Maurice
as yet depended solely on his wrist. Once they came together, 
guard to guard, neither daring to break away until by mutual
agreement, spoken only by the eyes, both leaped backward out of
reach. There was no sound save the quick light stamp of feet and
the angry murmur of steel scraping against steel. Sometimes they 
moved circlewise, with free blades, waiting and watching. Up 
to now Beauvais's play had been by the book, so to speak, and 
he began to see that his opponent was well read.

"Which side is the pretty rose?" seeking to distract Maurice.
"Tell me, and I will pin it to you."

Not a muscle moved in Maurice's face.

"It is too, bad," went on Beauvais, "that her Highness finds a
lover only to lose him. You fool! I read your eyes when you
picked up that rose. Princesses are not for such as you. I will
find her a lover, it will be neither you nor Prince
Frederick--ah! you caught that nicely. But you depend too much on
the wrist. Presently it will tire; and then--pouf!"

Now and then a a flame, darting from the grate, sparkled on the
polished steel, and from the steel it shot into the watchful
eyes. A quarter of an hour passed; still Maurice remained on the
defensive. At first Beauvais misunderstood the reason, and
thought Maurice did not dare run the risk of passing from
defensive to offensive. But by and by the froth of impatience
crept into his veins. He could not penetrate above or below that
defense. The man before him was of marble, with a wrist of iron;
he neither smiled nor spoke, there was no sign of life at all,
except in the agile legs, the wrist, and eyes. The Colonel
decided to change his tactics.

"When I have killed you," he said, "I shall search your pockets,
for I know that you lie when you say that you have not those
certificates. Madame was a fool to send you. No man lives who may
be trusted. And what is your game? Save the Osians? Small good it
will do you. Her Highness will wed Prince Frederick--mayhap--and
all you will get is cold thanks. And in such an event, have you
reckoned on Madame the duchess? War! And who will win? Madame;
for she has not only her own army, but mine. Come, come! Speak,
for when you leave this room your voice will be silent. Make use
of the gift, since it is about to leave you."
 
The reply was a sudden straightening of the arm. The blade
slipped in between the Colonel's forearm and body, and was out
again before the soldier fully comprehended what had happened.
Maurice permitted a cold smile to soften the rigidity of his
face. Beauvais saw the smile, and read it. The thrust had been
rendered harmless intentionally. An inch nearer, and he had been
a dead man. To accomplish such a delicate piece of sword play
required nothing short of mastery. Beauvais experienced a
disagreeable chill, which was not unmixed with chagrin. The boy
had held his life in his hand, and had spared it. He set his
teeth, and let loose with a fury before which nothing could
stand; and Maurice was forced back step by step until he was
almost up with the wall.

"You damned fool!" the Colonel snarled, "you'll never get that
chance again."

For the next few minutes it took all the splendid defense Maurice
possessed to keep the spark in his body. The Colonel's sword was
no longer a sword, it was a flame; which circled, darted, hissed
and writhed. Twice Maurice felt the bite of it, once in the arm
and again in the thigh. These were not deep, but they told him
that the end was but a short way off. He had no match for this
brilliant assault. Something must be done, and that at once. He
did not desire the Colonel's death, and the possibility of
accomplishing this was now extremely doubtful. But he wanted to
live. Life was just beginning--the rough road had been left
behind. He was choosing between his life and the Colonel's.
Beauvais, after the fashion of the old masters, was playing for
the throat. This upward thrusting, when continuous, is difficult
to meet, and Maurice saw that sooner or later the blade would
reach home. If not sudden death, it meant speechlessness, and
death as a finality. Then the voice of his guardian angel spoke. 

"I do not wish your life," he said, breaking the silence, "but at
the same time I wish to live--ah!" Maurice leaped back just in
time. As it was, the point of his enemy's blade scratched his
chin.

They broke and circled. The Colonel feinted. Maurice, with his
elbow against his side and his forearm extended, waited. Again
the Colonel lunged for the throat. This time, instead of meeting
it in tierce, Maurice threw his whole force forward in such a
manner as to bring the steel guard of his rapier full on the
Colonel's point. There was a ringing sound of snapping steel, and
the Colonel stood with nothing but a stump in his grasp.

"There you are," said Maurice, a heat-flash passing over him. Had
he swerved a hair's breadth from the line, time would have tacked
finis to the tale. "Now, I am perfectly willing to talk," putting
his point to the Colonel's breast. "It would inconvenience me to
kill you, but do not count too much on that."

"Damn you!" cried the Colonel, giving way, his face yellow with
rage, chagrin and fear. "Kill me, for I swear to God that one or
the other of us must die! Damn you and your meddling nose!" 

"Damn away, chevalier d'industrie; damn away. But live, live,
live! That will be the keenest punishment. Live! O, my brave
killer of boys, you thought to play with me as a cat with a
mouse, eh? Eh, Captain Urquijo-Beauvais-and-What-is-your-name?"
He pressed the point here, there, everywhere. "You were too
confident. Pardon me if I appear to brag, but I have taken
lessons of the best fencing masters in Europe, and three times,
while you devoted your talents to monologues, I could have pinned
you like one of those butterflies on the wall there. Have you
ever heard of the sword of Damocles? Well, well; it hangs over
many a head to-day. I will be yours. I give you forty-eight hours
to arrange your personal affairs. If after that time you are
still in this part of the country, I shall inform the proper
authorities in Vienna. The republic has representation there. Of
a noble Austrian house, on the eve of recall? I think not."

Beauvais made a desperate attempt to clutch the blade in his
hands.

"No, no!" laughed Maurice, making rapid prods which caused
Beauvais to wince. "Now, back; farther, farther. I do not like
the idea of having my back to the door."

Beauvais suddenly wheeled and dashed for the mantel. But as he 
endeavored to lay hand on the revolver Maurice brought down 
the blade on the Colonel's knuckles, leaving a livid welt. 
Maurice took possession of the weapon, while a grimace of 
agony shot over the Colonel's face. Seeing that the chambers 
were loaded, Maurice threw down the sword.

"Well, well!" he said, cocking the weapon. "And I saw it when I
entered the room. It would have saved a good deal of trouble."
Beauvais grew white. "O," Maurice continued, "I am not going to
shoot you. I wish merely to call your valet." He aimed at the
grate and pressed the trigger, and the report, vibrating within
the four walls, was deafening.

A moment passed, and the valet, with bulging eyes and 
blanched face, peered in. Seeing how matters stood, he made as 
though to retreat.

Maurice leveled the smoking revolver. "Come in, Francois; your
master will have need of you."

Francois complied, vertigo in his limbs. "My God!" he cried,
wringing his hands.

"Your master tried to murder me," said Maurice. Francois had
heard voices like this before, and it conveyed to him that a fine
quality of anger lay close to the surface. "Take down yonder
window curtain cord." Francois did so. "Now bind your master's
hands with it."

"Francois," cried the Colonel, "if you so much as lay a finger on
me, I'll kill you."

"Francois, I will kill you if you don't," said Maurice.

"My God!" wailed the valet at loss which to obey when to obey
either meant death. His teeth chattered.

"You may have all the time you want, Francois, to wring your
hands when I am gone. Come; to work. Colonel, submit. I'm in a
hurry and have no time to spare. While I do not desire to kill
you, self-preservation will force me to put a bullet into your
hide, which will make you an inmate of the city hospital. Bind
his hands behind his back, and no more nonsense."

"Monsieur," appealingly to Beauvais, "my God, I am forced. He
will kill me!"

"So will I," grimly; "by God, I will!" Beauvais had a plan. If he
could keep Maurice long enough, help might arrive. And he had an
excellent story to tell. Still Francois doddered. With his eye on
the Colonel and the revolver sighted, Maurice picked up the
sword. He gave Francois a vigorous prod. Francois needed no
further inducement. He started forward with alacrity. In the wink
of an eye he threw the cord around Beauvais's arms and pinned
them to his sides. Beauvais swore, but the valet was strong in
his fright. He struggled and wound and knotted and tied,
murmuring his pitiful "Mon Dieu!" the while, till the Colonel was
the central figure of a Gordian knot.

"That will do," said Maurice. "Now, Francois, good and faithful
servant, take your master over to the lounge, and sit down beside
him until I get into my clothes. Yes; that's it." He shoved his
collar and tie into a pocket, slipped on his vest and coat, put
on his hat and slung his topcoat over his arm. During these
maneuvers the revolver remained conspicuously in sight. "Now,
Francois, lead the way to the street door. By the time you return
to your illustrious master, who is the prince or duke of
something or other, pursuit will be out of the question. Now, as
for you," turning to Beauvais, "the forty-eight hours hold good.
During that time I shall go armed. Forty-eight hours from now I
shall inform the authorities at the nearest consulate. If they
catch you, that's your affair. Off we go, Francois."

"By God!--" began Beauvais, struggling to his feet.

"Come so far as this door," warned Maurice, "and, bound or not,
I'll knock you down. Hang you! Do you think my temper will
improve in your immediate vicinity? Do you think for a moment
that I do not lust for your blood as heartily as you lust for
mine? Go to the devil your own way; you'll go fast enough!" He
caught Francois by the shoulders and pushed him into the hall,
followed, and closed the door. Francois had been graduated from
the stables, therefore his courage never rose to sublime heights.
All the way down the stairs he lamented; and each time he turned
his head and saw the glitter of the revolver barrel he choked
with terror. 

"If you do not kill me, Monsieur, he will; he will, I know he
will! My God, how did it happen? He will kill me!" and the voice
sank into a muffled sob.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Maurice could not repress
his laughter. "He will not harm you; he threatened you merely to
delay me. Open the door." He stepped out into the refreshing air.
"By the way, tell your master not to go to the trouble of having
me arrested, for the first thing in the morning I shall place a
sealed packet in the hands of the British minister, to be opened
if I do not call for it within twenty-four hours. And say to your
master that I shall keep the rose."

"Mon Dieu! A woman! I might have known!" ejaculated Francois, as
the door banged in his face.
     
Maurice, on reaching the pavement, took to his legs, for he saw
three men rapidly approaching. Perhaps they had heard the pistol
shot. He concluded not to wait to learn. He continued his rush
till he gained his room. It was two o'clock. He had been in the
Colonel's room nearly three hours. It seemed only so many
minutes. He hunted for his brandy, found it and swallowed several
mouthfuls. Then he dropped into a chair from sheer exhaustion.
Reaction laid hold of him. His hands shook, his legs trembled,
and perspiration rolled down his cheek.

"By George!" This exclamation stood alone, but it was an 
Odyssey. He remained stupefied, staring at his shoes, over 
which his stockings had fallen. His shirt buttons were gone, and 
the bosom was guiltless of its former immaculateness. After a 
time he became conscious of a burning pain in the elbow of his 
right arm. He glanced down at his hand, to find it covered with 
drying blood. He jumped up and cast about his clothes. One leg 
of his trousers was soaked, and the dull ache in his thigh told 
the cause. He salved the wounds and bound them in strips of 
handkerchiefs, which he held in place by using some of the 
cast-off cravats.

"That was about as close to death as a man can get and pull out.
I feel as if I had swallowed that cursed blade of his. I am an
ass, sure enough. I've always a bad cold when there's a rat
about; can't smell him. And the rascal remembered me! Will he
stay in spite of my threat? I'll hang on here till to-morrow. If
he stays--I won't. He has the devil's own of a sword. Hang it, my
nerves are all gone to smash."

Soon some gentler thought took hold, and he smiled tenderly. He
brought forth the rose, turned it this way and that, studied it,
stroked it, held it to his lips as a lover holds the hand of the
woman he loves. Her rose; somehow his heart told him that she had
laughed because Beauvais had stooped in vain.

"Ah, Maurice," he said, "you are growing over fond. But why not?
Who will know? To have loved is something."

He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he
tossed about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels
with all sorts of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but
the archbishop always gave him something which rekindled the
vital spark. A thousand Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand
princesses were ever in the background, waiting to be saved. He
swore to kill these Beauvaises, and after many fruitless
endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their gray 
pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass
some great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle
with a pillow and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.

"It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman."

So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking
and smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky,
and he knew that day had come.




CHAPTER XVIII


A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT

Marshal Kampf, wrapt in his military cloak, with the peak of his 
cap drawn over his eyes, sat on one of the rustic benches in the 
archbishop's gardens and reflected. The archbishop had announced 
an informal levee, the first since the king's illness. He had 
impressed the Marshal with the fact that his presence was both 
urgent and necessary. Disturbed as he was by the unusual command,
the Marshal had arrived an hour too early. Since the prelate 
would not rise until nine, the Marshal told the valet that he 
would wait in the gardens.

An informal levee, he mused. What was the meaning of it? Had 
that master of craft and silence found a breach in the enemy's 
fortifications? He rubbed the chill from his nose, crossed and 
re-crossed his legs and teetered till the spurs on his boots set 
up a tuneful jingle.

So far as he himself was concerned, he was not worried. The 
prelate knew his views and knew that he would stand or fall with 
them. He had never looked for benefits, as did those around him. 
He had offered what he had without hope of reward, because he 
had considered it his duty. And, after all, what had the Osian 
done that he should be driven to this ignominious end? His 
motives never could be questioned; each act had been in some way 
for the country's good. Every king is a usurper to those who 
oppose him.

Would the kingdom be bettered in having a queen against whom the 
confederation itself was opposed? Would it not be adding a 
twofold burden to the one? The kingdom was at peace with those 
countries from which it had most to fear. Was it wise to 
antagonize them? Small independent states were independent only 
by courtesy. Again, why had Austria contrived to place an alien 
on the throne, in face of popular sentiment? Would Austria's 
interests have been less safe in the advent of rightful 
succession? Up to now, what had Austria gained by ignoring the 
true house? Outwardly nothing, but below the surface? Who could 
answer?

For eleven years he had tried to discover the secret purpose of 
Austria, but, like others, he had failed; and the Austrian 
minister was less decipherable than the "Chinese puzzle." He was 
positive that none of the arch-conspirators knew; they were 
blinded by self-interest. And the archbishop? The Marshal rubbed 
his nose again, not, however, because it was cold. Did any one 
know what was going on behind the smiling mask which the 
reticent prelate showed to the world? The Marshal poked his chin 
above his collar, and the wrinkles fell away from his gray eyes.

The sky was clear and brilliant, and a tonic from the forests 
sweetened the rushing air. The lake was ruffled out of its usual 
calm, and rolled and galloped along the distant shores and 
flashed on the golden sands. Above the patches of red and brown 
and yellow the hills and mountains stood out in bold, decided 
lines.

Water fowl swept along the marshes. The doves in twos and threes 
fluttered down to the path, strutted about in their peculiarly 
awkward fashion, and doubtfully eyed the silent gray figure on 
the bench, as if to question his right to be there this time of 
the morning, their trysting hour. Presently the whole flock came 
down, and began cooing and waltzing at the Marshal's feet. He 
soon discovered the cause.

Her Royal Highness was coming through the opening in the 
hedgerow which separated the two confines. She carried a basket 
on her arm, and the bulldog followed at her heels, holding his 
injured leg in the air, and limping on the remaining three. At 
the sight of her the doves rose and circled above her head. She 
smiled and threw into the air handful after handful of cake and 
bread crumbs. In their eagerness the doves alighted on her 
shoulders, on the rim of the basket, and even on the broad back 
of the dog, who was too sober to give attention to this seeming 
indignity. He kept his eye on his mistress's skirts, moved when 
she moved, and stopped when she stopped. A gray-white cloud 
enveloped them.

The Marshal, with a curious sensation in his heart, observed 
this exquisite, living picture. He was childless; and though he 
was by nature undemonstrative, he was very fond of this youth. 
Her cheeks were scarlet, her rosy lips were parted in excitement,
and her eyes glistened with pleasure. With all her twenty years,
she was but ten in fancy; a woman, yet a child, unlettered in 
worldly wit, wise in her love of nature. Not until she had 
thrown away the last of the crumbs did she notice the Marshal. 
He rose and bowed.

"Good morning, your Highness. I am very much interested in your 
court. And do you hold it every morning?"

"Even when it rains," she said, smiling. "I am so glad to see 
you; I wanted to talk to you last night, but I could not find 
the opportunity. Let me share the bench with you."

And youth and age sat down together. The bulldog planted himself 
in the middle of the path and blinked at his sworn enemy. The 
Marshal had no love for him, and he was well aware of it; at 
present, an armistice.

The princess gazed at the rollicking waters, at her doves, 
thence into the inquiring gray eyes of the old soldier.

"Do you remember," she said, "how I used to climb on your knees, 
ever so long ago, and listen to your fairy stories?"

"Eh! And is it possible that your Highness remembers?" wrinkles 
of delight gathering in his cheeks. "But why `ever so long ago'? 
It was but yesterday. And your Highness remembers!"

"I am like my father; I never forget!" She looked toward the 
waters again. "I can recall only one story. It was about a 
princess who lost all her friends through the offices of a 
wicked fairy. I remember it because it was the only story you 
told me that had a sad ending. It was one of Andersen's. Her 
father and mother died, and the moment she was left alone her 
enemies set to work and toppled over her throne. She was cast 
out into the world, having no friend but a dog; but the dog 
always found something to eat, and protected her from giants and 
robbers and wolves.

"Many a time I thought of her, and cried because she was so 
unhappy. Well, she traveled from place to place, footsore and 
weary, but in her own country no one dared aid her, for fear of 
displeasing the wicked fairy, who at this time was all powerful. 
So she entered a strange land, where some peasants took her in, 
clothed and fed her, and gave her a staff and a flock of geese 
to tend. And day after day she guarded the flock, telling her 
sorrows to the dog, how she missed the dear ones and the home of 
her childhood.

"One day the reigning prince of this strange land passed by 
while hunting, and he saw the princess tending her geese. He 
made inquiries, and when he found that the beautiful goose-girl 
was a princess, he offered to marry her. She consented to become 
his wife, because she was too delicate to drudge. So she and her 
dog went to live at the palace. Once she was married the dog 
behaved strangely, whining softly, and refusing to be consoled. 
The prince was very kind to them both.

"Alas! It seems that when she left her own country the good 
fairy had lost all track of her, to find her when it was too 
late. The dog was a prince under a wicked spell, and when the 
spell fell away the princess knew that she loved him, and not 
her husband. She pined away and died. How many times I have 
thought of her, poor, lonely, fairy-tale princess!"

The old soldier blinked at the doves, and there was a furrow 
between his eyes. Yes; how well he remembered telling her that 
story. But, as she repeated it, it was clothed with a strange 
significance. Somehow, he found himself voiceless; he knew not 
how to reply.

"Monsieur," she said suddenly, "tell me, what has my poor father 
done that these people should hate him and desire his ruin?"

"He has been kind to them, my child," his gaze still riveted on 
the doves; "that is all. He has given them beautiful parks, he 
has made them a beautiful city. A king who thinks of his 
people's welfare is never understood. And ignorant and 
ungrateful people always hate those to whom they are under 
obligations. It is the way of the world."

"And--and you, Marshal?" timidly.

"And I?"

"Yes. They whisper that--that--O, Marshal, is it you who will 
forsake us in our need? I have heard many things of late which 
were not intended for my ears. My father and I, we are so alone. 
I have never known the comradeship of young people; I have never 
had that which youth longs for--a confidant of my own age. The 
young people I know serve me simply for their own ends, and not 
because they love me.

"I have never spoken thus before to-day, save to this dog. He 
has been my confidant; but he can not speak except with his kind 
old eyes, and he can not understand as I would have him. And 
they hate even him because they know that I love him. Poor dog!

"What my father has done has always been wrong in his own eyes, 
but he sinned for my sake, and God will forgive him. He gave up 
the home he loved for my sake. O, that I had known and 
understood! I was only six. We are so alone; we have no place to 
go, no friends save two, and they are helpless. And now I am to 
make a sacrifice for him to repay him for all he has done for me.
I have promised my hand to one I do not love; even he forsakes 
me. But love is not the portion of princesses. Love to them is a 
fairy story. To secure my father's throne I have sacrificed my 
girlhood dreams. Ah! and they were so sweet and dear."

She put a hand to her throat as if something had tightened there.
"Marshal, I beg of you to tell me the truth, the truth! Is my 
father dying? Is he? He--they will not tell me the truth. And I .
. . never to hear his voice again! The truth, for pity's sake!" 
She caught at his hands and strove to read his eyes. "For pity's 
sake!"

He drew his breath deeply. He dared not look into her eyes for 
fear she might see the tears in his; so he bent hastily and 
pressed her hands to his lips. But in his heart he knew that his 
promise to the dead was gone with the winds, and that he would 
shed the last drop of blood in his withered veins for the sake 
of this sad, lonely child.

"Your father, my child, will never stand up straight again," he 
said. "As for the rest, that is in the hands of God. But I swear 
to you that this dried-up old heart beats only for you. I will 
stand or fall with you, in good times or bad." And he rubbed his 
nose more fiercely than ever. "Had I a daughter-- But there! I 
have none."

"My heart is breaking," she said, with a little sob. She sank 
back, her head drooped to the arm of the bench, and she made no 
effort to stem the flood of tears. "I have no mother, and now my 
father is to leave me. And I love him so, I love him so! He has 
sacrificed all his happiness to secure mine--in vain. I laugh 
and smile because he asks me to, and all the while my heart is 
breaking, breaking."

At this juncture the doves rose hurriedly. The Marshal 
discovered the archbishop's valet making toward him.

"Monsieur the Marshal, Monseigneur breakfasts and requests you 
to join him."

"Immediately;" and the Marshal rose. He placed his hand on the 
dark head. "Keep up your heart, my child," he said, "and we 
shall see if I have grown too old for service." He squared his 
shoulders and followed the valet, who viewed the scene with a 
valet's usual nonchalance. When the Marshal reached the steps to 
the side entrance, he looked back. The dog had taken his place, 
and the girl had buried her face in his neck. A moment later the 
old soldier was ushered into the archbishop's presence, but 
neither with fear nor uneasiness in his heart.

"Ah ! Good morning, Marshal," said the prelate. "Be seated. Did 
you not find it chilly in the gardens?"

"Not the least. It is a fine day. I have just left her Royal 
Highness."

The prelate arched his eyebrows, and an interrogation shot out 
from under them.

"Yes," answered the observant soldier. "My heart has ever been 
hers; this time it is my hand and brain."

The prelate's egg spoon remained poised in mid-air; then it 
dropped with a clatter into the cup! But a moment gone he had 
held a sword in his hand; he was disarmed.

"I have promised to stand and fall with her."

"Stand and fall? Why not 'or'?" with a long, steadfast gaze.

"Did I say 'and'? Well, then," stolidly, "perhaps that is the 
word I meant to use. If I do the one I shall certainly do the 
other."

The archbishop absently stirred his eggs.

"God is witness," said the Marshal, "I have always been honest."

"Yes."

"And neutral."

"Yes; honest and neutral."

"But a man, a lonely man like myself, can not always master the 
impulses of the heart; and I have surrendered to mine."

The listener turned to some documents which lay beside the cup, 
and idly fingered them. "I am glad; I am very glad. I have 
always secretly admired you; and to tell the truth, I have 
feared you most of all--because you are honest."

The Marshal shifted his saber around and drew his knees together.
"I return the compliment," frankly. "I have never feared you; I 
have distrusted you."

"And why distrusted?"

"Because Leopold of Osia would never have forsaken his 
birthright, nor looked toward a throne, had you not pointed the 
way and coveted the archbishopric."

"I wished only to make him great;" but the prelate lowered his eyes.

"And share his greatness," was the shrewd rejoinder. "I am an 
old man, and frankness in old age is pardonable. There are 
numbers of disinterested men in the world, but unfortunately 
they happen to be dead. O, I do not blame you; there is human 
nature in most of us. But the days of Richelieus and Mazarins 
are past. The Church is simply the church, and is no longer the 
power behind the throne. I have served the house of Auersperg 
for fifty years, that is to say, since I was sixteen; I had 
hoped to die in the service. Perhaps my own reason for 
distrusting you has not been disinterested."

"Perhaps not."

"And as I now stand I shall die neither in the service of the 
house of Auersperg nor of Osia. It is not the princess; it is 
the lonely girl."

"I need not tell you," said the prelate quietly, "that I am in 
Bleiberg only for that purpose. And since we are together, I 
will tell you this: Madame the duchess will never sit upon this 
throne. To-day I am practically regent, with full powers from 
his Majesty. I have summoned von Wallenstein and Mollendorf for 
a purpose which I shall make known to you." He held up two 
documents, and gently waving them: "These contain the dismissal 
of both gentlemen, together with my reasons. There were three; 
one I shall now destroy because it has suddenly become void." He 
tore it up, turned, and flung the pieces into the grate.

The Marshal glanced instinctively at his shoulder straps, and 
saw that they had come very near to oblivion.

"There is nothing more, Marshal," went on the prelate. "What I 
had to say to you has slipped my mind. Under the change of 
circumstances, it might embarrass you to meet von Wallenstein 
and Mollendorf. You have spoken frankly, and in justice to you I 
will return in kind. Yes, in the old days I was ambitious; but 
God has punished me through those I love. I shall leave to you 
the selection of a new Colonel of the cuirassiers."

"What! and Beauvais, too?" exclaimed the Marshal.

"Yes. My plans require it. I have formed a new cabinet, which 
will meet to-night at eight. I shall expect you to be present."

The two old men rose. Suddenly, a kindly smile broke through the 
austereness of the prelate's countenance, and he thrust out his 
hand; the old soldier met it.

"Providence always watches over the innocent," said the prelate, 
"else we would have been still at war. Good morning."

The Marshal returned home, thoughtful and taciturn. What would 
be the end?

Ten minutes after the Marshal's departure, von Wallenstein and 
Mollendorf entered the prelate's breakfast room.

"Good morning, Messieurs," said the churchman, the expression on 
his face losing its softness, and the glint of triumph stealing 
into his keen eyes. "I am acting on behalf of his Majesty this 
morning," presenting a document to each. "Observe them carefully."
He turned and left the room. The archbishop had not only eaten 
a breakfast, he had devoured a cabinet.

Count von Wallenstein watched the retreating figure of the 
prelate till the door closed behind it; then he smiled at 
Mollendorf, who had not the courage to return it, and who stared 
at the parchment in his hand as if it were possessed of basilisk 
eyes.

"Monseigneur," said the count, as he glanced through the 
contents of the document, "has forestalled me. Well, well; I do 
not begrudge him his last card. He has played it; let us go."

"Perhaps," faltered Mollendorf, "he has played his first card. 
What are you going to do?"

"Remain at home and wait. And I shall not have long to wait. The 
end is near."

"Count, I tell you that the archbishop is not a man to play thus 
unless something strong were behind him. You do wrong not to 
fear him."

Von Wallenstein recalled the warning of the Colonel of the 
cuirassiers. "Nevertheless, we are too strong to fear him."

"Monseigneur is in correspondence with Austria," said the 
minister of police, quietly.

"You said nothing of this before," was the surprised reply.

"It was only this morning that I learned it."

The count's gaze roamed about the room, and finally rested on 
the charred slips of paper in the grate. He shrugged.

"If he corresponds with Austria it is too late," he said. "Come, 
let us go." He snapped his fingers in the air, and Mollendorf 
followed him from the room.


*   *   *   *   *   *


The princess still remained on the rustic bench; her head was 
bowed, but her tears were dried.

"O, Bull," she whispered, "and you and I shall soon be all alone!"

A few doves fluttered about her; the hills flamed beneath the 
chill September sky, the waters sang and laughed, but she saw 
not nor heard.




CHAPTER XIX


A CHANCE RIDE IN THE NIGHT

Maurice, who had wisely slept the larger part of the day, and 
amused himself at solitary billiards until dinner, came out on 
the terrace to smoke his after-dinner cigar. He watched the sun 
as, like a ball of rusted brass, it slid down behind the hills, 
leaving the glowing embers of a smoldering day on the hilltops. 
The vermilion deepened into charred umber, and soon the west was 
a blackened grate; another day vanished in ashes. The filmy 
golden pallor of twilight now blurred the landscape; the wind 
increased with a gayer, madder, keener touch; the lake went 
billowing in shadows of gray and black, and one by one the lamps 
of the city sprang up, vivid as sparks from an anvil. Now and 
again the thin, clear music of the band drifted across from the 
park. The fountain glimmered in the Platz, the cafes began to 
glitter, carriages rolled hither and thither. The city had taken 
on its colorful night.

"Well, here's another day gone," he mused, rubbing his elbow, 
which was yet stiff. "I am anxious to know what that sinner is 
doing. Has he pulled up stakes or has he stayed to get a whack 
at me? I hope he's gone; he's a bad Indian, and if anything, 
he'll want my scalp in his belt before he goes. Hang it! It 
seems that I have poked my head into every bear trap in the 
kingdom. I may not get out of the next one. How clever I was, to 
be sure! It all comes from loving the dramatic. I am a diplomat, 
but nobody would guess it at first sight. To talk to a man as I 
talked to him, and to threaten! He said I was young; I was, but 
I grow older every day. And the wise word now is, don't imitate 
the bull of the trestle," as he recalled an American cartoon 
which at that day was having vogue in the American colony in 
Vienna.

"I like adventure, I know, but I'm going to give the Colonel a 
wide berth. If he sees me first, off the board I go. Where will 
he go--to the duchy? I trust not; we both can not settle in that 
territory; it's too small. And yet I am bound to go back; it is 
not my promise so much as it is my cursed curiosity. By George!" 
rubbing his elbow gently. "And to think, Maurice, that you might 
not have witnessed this sunset but for a bit of fencing trickery.
What a turn that picture of Inez gave me! I knew him in a 
second--and like the ass I was, I told him so. And to meet him 
here, almost a left-handed king; no wonder I did not recognize 
him.

"I should like to come in on Fitzgerald to-night. His father 
must have had a crazy streak in him somewhere. Four millions to 
throw away; humph! And who the deuce has those certificates?" He 
lolled against the parapet. "If I had four millions, and if 
Prince Frederick had disappeared for good. . . . Why are things 
so jumbled up, at sixes and sevens? We are all human beings; why 
should some be placed higher than others? A prince is no better 
than I am, and may be not half so good.

"Sometimes I like to get up high somewhere and look down on 
every one else; every one else looks so small that it's 
comforting. The true philosopher has no desire; he sits down and 
views the world as if he were not a part of it. Perhaps it is 
best so. Yes, I would like four millions and a principality. . . .
Heigho! how bracing the air is, and what a night for a ride! 
I've a mind to exercise Madame's horse. A long lone ride on the 
opposite side of the lake, on the road to Italy; come, let's try 
it. Better that than mope."

He mounted to the veranda, and for the first time he noticed the 
suppressed excitement which lit the faces of those around him. 
Groups were gathered here and there, talking, gesticulating, and 
flourishing the evening papers. He moved toward the nearest 
group.

"The archbishop has dismissed the cabinet . . . crisis imminent."

"The Austrian minister has recalled his invitations to the 
embassy ball."

"The archbishop will not be able to form another cabinet."

"Count von Wallenstein . . . "

"Mollendorf and Beauvais, too--"

"The king is dying . . . The archbishop has been given full 
powers."

"The army will revolt unless Beauvais is recalled."

"And the Marshal says here . . ."

Maurice waited to hear no more, but climbed through the window 
into the office.

"By George, something has happened since last night. I must have 
an evening paper." He found one, and read an elaborate account 
of what had taken place during the day. Von Wallenstein had been 
relieved of the finance. Mollendorf of the police, Erzberg of 
foreign affairs, and Beauvais of his epaulettes. There remained 
only the archbishop, the chancellor and the Marshal. The 
editorial was virulent in its attack on the archbishop, 
blustered and threatened, and predicted that the fall of the 
dynasty was but a matter of a few hours. For it asserted that 
the prelate could not form another cabinet, and without a 
cabinet there could be no government. It was not possible for 
the archbishop to shoulder the burden alone; he must reinstate 
the ministry or fall.

"And this is the beginning of the end," said Maurice, throwing 
aside the paper. "What will happen next? The old prelate is not 
a man to play to the gallery. Has he found out the double 
dealing of Beauvais? That takes a burden off my shoulders--
unless he goes at once to the duchy. But why wasn't the cabinet 
dismissed ages ago? It is now too late. And where is Prince 
Frederick to the rescue? There is something going on, and what 
it is only the archbishop knows.

That smile of his! How will it end? I'd like to see von Mitter, 
who seems to be a good gossip. And that poor, friendless, 
paralytic king! I say, but it makes the blood grow warm."

He left the chair and paced the office confines. Only one thing 
went echoing through his brain, and that was he could do nothing.
The sooner he settled down in the attitude of a spectator the 
better for him. Besides, he was an official in the employ of a 
foreign country, and it would be the height of indiscretion to 
meddle, even in a private capacity. It would be to jeopardize 
his diplomatic career, and that would be ridiculous.

A porter touched him on the shoulder.

"A letter for your Excellency."

It was from the American minister in Vienna.

"My dear Carewe: I have a service to ask of you. The British 
minister is worried over the disappearance of a fellow-
countryman, Lord Fitzgerald. He set out for Bleiberg, leaving 
instructions to look him up if nothing was heard of him within a 
week. Two weeks have gone. Knowing you to be in Bleiberg, I 
believed you might take the trouble to look into the affair. The 
British ambassador hints at strange things, as if he feared foul 
play. I shall have urgent need of you by the first of October; 
our charge d'affaires is to return home on account of ill-health,
and your appointment to that office is a matter of a few days."

Maurice whistled. "That is good news; not Haine's illness, but 
that I have an excuse to meddle here. I'll telegraph at once. 
And I'll take the ride besides." He went to his room and buckled 
on his spurs, and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into a 
pocket. "I am not going to take any chances, even in the dark." 
Once again in the office, he stepped up to the desk and ordered 
his horse to be brought around to the cafe entrance.

"Certainly," said the clerk. Then in low tones "There has been a 
curious exchange in saddles, Monsieur."

"Saddles?"

"Yes. The saddle in your stall is, curiously enough, stamped 
with the arms of the house of Auersperg. How that military 
saddle came into the stables is more than the grooms can solve."

"O," said Maurice, with an assumption of carelessness; "that is 
all right. It's the saddle I arrived on. The horse and saddle 
belong to Madame the duchess. I have been visiting at the Red 
Chateau. I shall return in the morning."

"Ah," said the clerk, with a furtive smile which Maurice lost; 
"that accounts for the mystery."

"Here are two letters that must get in to-night's mails," 
Maurice said; "and also this telegram should be sent at once."

"As Monsieur desires. Ah, I came near forgetting. There is a 
note for Monsieur, which came this afternoon while Monsieur was 
asleep."

The envelope was unstamped, and the scrawl was unfamiliar to 
Maurice. On opening it he was surprised to find a hurriedly 
written note from Fitzgerald. In all probability it had been 
brought by the midnight courier on his return from the duchy.

     "In God's name, Maurice, why do you linger?
     To-morrow morning those consols must be here
     or they will be useless. Hasten; you know what
     it means to me.
                                 Fitzgerald."

Maurice perused it twice, and pulled at his lips. "Madame 
becomes impatient. Poor devil. Somebody is likely to become 
suddenly rich and somebody correspondingly poor. What will they 
say when I return empty-handed? Like as not Madame will accuse 
me--and Fitzgerald will believe her! . . . The archbishop! That 
accounts for this bold move. And how the deuce did he get hold 
of them? I give up." And his shoulders settled in resignation.

He passed down into the cafe, from there to his horse, which a 
groom was holding at the curb. He swung into the saddle and 
tossed a coin to the man, who touched his cap.

The early moon lifted its silvery bulk above the ragged east, 
and the patches of clouds which swarmed over the face of that 
white world of silence resembled so many rooks. Far away, at the 
farthermost shore of the lake, whenever the moon went free from 
the clouds, Maurice could see the slim gray line of the road 
which stretched toward Italy.

"It's a fine night," he mused, glancing heavenward. The horse 
answered the touch of the spurs, and cantered away, glad enough 
to exchange the close air of the stables for this fresh gift of 
the night. Maurice guided him around the palaces into the avenue,
which derived its name from the founder of the opera, in which 
most of the diplomatic families lived. Past the residence of 
Beauvais he went, and, gazing up at the lightless windows, a 
cold of short duration seized his spine. It bad been a hair's 
breadth betwixt him and death. "Your room, Colonel, is better 
than you company; and hereafter I shall endeavor to avoid both. 
I shall feel that cursed blade of yours for weeks to come."

Carriages rolled past him. A gay throng in evening dress was 
crowding into the opera. The huge placard announced, "Norma--
Mlle. Lenormand--Royal Opera Troupe." How he would have liked to 
hear it, with Lenormand in the title role. He laughed as he 
recalled the episodes in Vienna which were associated with this 
queen of song. He waved his hand as the opera house sank in the 
distance. "Au revoir, Celeste, ma charmante; adieu." By and by 
he reached the deserted part of the city, and in less than a 
quarter of an hour branched off into the broad road bordering 
the lake. The horse quickened his gait as he felt the stone of 
the streets no longer beneath his feet, which now fell with 
muffled rhythm on the sound earth. Maurice shared with him the 
delight of the open country, and began to talk to the animal.

"A fine night, eh, old boy? I've ridden many backs, but none 
easier than yours. This air is what gives the blood its color. 
Too bad; you ought not to belong to Madame. She will never think 
as much of you as I should."

The city was falling away behind, and a yellow vapor rose over 
it. The lake tumbled in moonshine. Maurice took to dreaming 
again--hope and a thousand stars, love and a thousand dreams.

"God knows I love her; but what's the use? We can not all have 
what we want; let us make the best of what we have. Philosophy 
is a comfort only to old age. Why should youth bother to reason 
why? And I--I have not yet outgrown youth. I believed I had, but 
I have not. I did not dream she existed, and now she is more to 
me than anything else in the world. Why; I wonder why? I look 
into a pair of brown eyes, and am seized with madness. I hope. 
For what? O, Bucephalus! let us try to wake and leave the dream 
behind. The gratitude of a princess and a dog . . . and for this 
a rose. Well, it will prove the substance of many a pipe, many a 
kindly pipe. You miss a good deal, Bucephalus; smoking is an 
evil habit only to those who have not learned to smoke."

The animal replied with a low whinney, and Maurice, believing 
that the horse had given an ear to his monologue, laughed. But 
he flattered himself. The horse whinneyed because he inhaled the 
faint odor of his kind. He drew down on the rein and settled 
into a swinging trot, which to Maurice's surprise was faster and 
easier than the canter. They covered a mile this way, when 
Maurice's roving eye discovered moving shadows, perhaps half a 
mile in advance.

"Hello! we're not the only ones jogging along. Eh, what's that?" 
Something flashed brightly, like silver reflecting moonlight; 
then came a spark of flame, which died immediately, and later 
Maurice caught an echo which resembled the bursting of a leaf 
against the lips. "Come; that looks like a pistol shot."

Again the flash of silver, broader and clearer this time; and 
Maurice could now separate the shadow-shapes. A carriage of some 
sort rolled from side to side, and two smaller shadows followed 
its wild flight. One--two--three times Maurice saw the sparks and 
heard the faint reports. He became excited. Something 
extraordinary was taking place on the lonely road. Suddenly the 
top of the carriage replied with spiteful flashes of red. Then 
the moon came out from behind the clouds, and the picture was 
vividly outlined. Two continuous flashes of silver. . . . 
Cuirassiers! Maurice loosened the rein, and the horse went 
forward as smoothly as a sail. The distance grew visibly less. 
The carriage opened fire again, and Maurice heard the sinister
m-m-m of a bullet winging past him.

"The wrong man may get hit, Bucephalus," he said, bending to the 
neck of the horse; "which is not unusual. You're pulling them 
down, old boy; keep it up. There's trouble ahead, and since the 
cuirassiers are for the king, we'll stand by the cuirassiers."

On they flew, nearer and nearer, until the pistol shots were no 
longer echoes. Two other horsemen came into view, in advance of 
the carriage. Five minutes more of this exciting chase, and the 
faces took on lines and grew into features. Up, up crept the 
gallant little horse, his hoofs rattling against the road like 
snares on a drum. When within a dozen rods, Maurice saw one of 
the cuirassiers turn and level a revolver at him. Fortunately 
the horse swerved, and the ball went wide.

"Don't shoot!" Maurice yelled; "don't shoot!"

The face he saw was von Mitter's. His heart clogged in his 
throat, not at the danger which threatened him, but at the 
thought of what that carriage might contain.

A short time passed, during which nothing was heard but the 
striking of galloping hoofs and the rumble of the carriage. 
Maurice soon drew abreast of von Mitter. There was a gash on the 
latter's cheek, and the blood from it dripped on his cuirass.

"Close for you, my friend," he gasped; when he recognized the 
new arrival. "Have you--God! my leg that time," with a groan.

For the fire of the carriage had spoken again, and true.

Maurice shut his teeth, drew his revolver, cocked it and applied 
the spurs. With a bound he shot past von Mitter, who was cursing 
deeply and trying to reload. Maurice did not propose to waste 
powder on the driver, but was determined to bring down one of 
the carriage horses, which were marvelous brutes for speed. 
Scharfenstein kept popping away at the driver, but without 
apparent result. Finally Maurice secured the desired range. He 
raised the revolver, rested the barrel between the left thumb 
and forefinger and pressed the trigger. The nearest carriage 
horse lurched to his knees, a bullet in his brain, dragging his 
mate with him. The race had come to an end.

At once the two horsemen in front separated; one continued 
toward the great forest, while the other took to the hills. 
Scharfenstein started in pursuit of the latter. As for the 
carriage, it came to an abrupt stand. The driver made a flying 
leap toward the lake, but stumbled and fell, and before he could 
regain his feet Maurice was off his horse and on his quarry. He 
caught the fellow by the throat and pressed him to the earth, 
kneeling on his chest.

"Hold him!" cried von Mitter, coming up with a limp, "hold him 
till I knock in his head, damn him!"

"No, no!" said Maurice, "you can't get information out of a dead 
man."

"It's all up with me," groaned the Lieutenant. "I'll ask for my 
discharge. I could hit nothing, my hand trembled. I was afraid 
of shooting into the carriage."

Maurice turned his attention to the man beneath him. "Now, you 
devil," he cried, "a clean breast of it, or off the board you go.
 O!" suddenly peering down. "By the Lord, so it is you--you--you!"
savagely bumping the fellow's head against the earth. "Spy!"

"You are killing me!"

"Small matter. Who is this fellow?" asked Maurice.

"Johann Kopf, a spy, a police rat, and God knows what else," 
answered von Mitter, limping toward the carriage. "Curse the leg!"
He forced the door and peered inside. "Fainted! I thought as 
much." He lifted the inanimate bundle which lay huddled in 
between the seats and carried it to the side of the road, where 
he tenderly laid it. He rubbed the girl's wrists, unmindful of 
the blood which fell from his face and left dark stains on her 
dress. "Thank God," heartily, "that her Royal Highness was 
suffering from a headache. She would have died from fright."

Maurice felt the straining cords in the prisoner's neck grow 
limp. The rascal had fainted.

"Not her Highness?" Maurice asked, the weight of dread lifting 
from his heart.

"No. Her Royal Highness sent Camille, her maid of honor, veiled 
and dressed like herself, to play an innocent jest on her old 
nurse. Some one shall account for this; for they mistook Camille 
for her Highness. I'm going to wade out into the water," von 
Mitter added, staggering to his feet.

"You'll never get off your boot," said Maurice.

"I'll cut it off," was the reply, "I shall faint if I do not 
cool off the leg. The ball is somewhere in the calf." And he 
waded out into the water until it reached above his knees. Thus 
he stood for a moment, then returned to the maid, who, on 
opening her eyes, screamed. "It is all over, Camille," said the 
Lieutenant, throwing an arm about her.

"Your face is bleeding!" she cried, and sank back with her head 
against his broad breast.

As Maurice gazed at the pair he sighed. There were no obstacles 
here.

Soon Scharfenstein came loping down the hill alone.

"I killed his horse," he said, in response to queries, "but he 
fled into the woods where I could not follow. A bad night for us,
Carl, a bad night," swinging off his horse. "A boy would have 
done better work. Whom have we here?"

"Kopf," said Maurice, "and he has a ball somewhere inside," 
holding up a bloody hand.

"Kopf?" Scharfenstein cocked his revolver.

The maid of honor placed her hands over her ears and screamed 
again. Max gazed at her, and, with a short, Homeric laugh, 
lowered the revolver.

"Any time will do," he said. "Ah, he opens his eyes."

The prisoner's eyes rolled wildly about. That frowning face 
above him . . . was it a vision? Who was it? What was he doing 
here?

"Who put you up to this?" demanded Maurice.

"You are choking me!"

"Who, I say?"

"Beauvais."

Scharfenstein and von Mitter looked at each other 
comprehensively.

"Who is this Beauvais? Speak!"

"I am dying, Herr . . . Your knees--"

Maurice withdrew his knees. "Beauvais; who is he?"

"Prince . . . Walmoden, formerly of the emperor's staff."

Johann's eyes closed again, and his head fell to one side.

"He looks as if he were done for," said Maurice, standing up. 
"Let us clear up the rubbish and hitch a horse to the carriage. 
The mate's all right."

Von Mitter assisted the maid into the carriage and seated her.

"Go and stay with her," said Maurice, brusquely; "you're half 
fainting."

"You are very handy, Carewe," said von Mitter gratefully, and he 
climbed in beside the maid, who, her fright gone, gave way to 
womanly instincts. She took her kerchief and wiped the 
Lieutenant's cheek, pressing his hand in hers the while.

Maurice and Scharfenstein worked away at the traces, and dragged 
the dead horse to the side of the road. Scharfenstein brought 
around von Mitter's horse, took oft the furnishings, and backed 
him into the pole.

Meanwhile the man lying by the water's edge showed signs of 
returning life. He turned his head cautiously. His enemies were 
a dozen yards away from him. Slowly he rolled over on his 
stomach, thence to his knees. They were paying no attention to 
him. . . .

"Ho, there! the prisoner!" cried von Mitter, tumbling out of the 
carriage. He tried to stand up, but a numbness seized his legs, 
and he sank to a sitting posture.

Maurice and Scharfenstein turned too late. Johann had mounted on 
Scharfenstein's horse, and was flying away down the road. 
Maurice coolly leveled his revolver and sent two bullets after 
him. The second one caused Johann to straighten stiffly, then to 
sink; but he hung on to the horse.

"Hurry!" cried Maurice; "I've hit him and we'll find him along 
the road somewhere."

They lifted von Mitter into the carriage, wheeled it about, and 
Scharfenstein mounted the box. Maurice sprang into his saddle, 
and they clattered off toward the city.




CHAPTER XX


THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT

The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace 
walked gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk,
and when they entered or left the room, they were particularly 
careful to avoid the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber.
Although the royal bedchamber was many doors removed, the 
Captain had issued a warning against any unnecessary noise. A 
loud laugh, or the falling of a saber carelessly rested, drew 
upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of the commander, 
who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in which a 
solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present. The high 
revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no 
longer made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now 
merely watch dogs.

Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an 
instructor in arms, and after the first year had watched over 
the royal household, in the service of the late king and the 
king who lay dying. He had come of good family, but others had 
come oof better, and had carried of court honors, though his 
post in early days had been envied by many. He was above all 
else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and he 
scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head. As 
he sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his 
opera singers, the court scandals, and his own constant 
employment as messenger in the king's love intrigues.

Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died 
the flower of court life. The courtiers and sycophants had 
flocked to the standard of the duke, and had remained there, 
primarily because Leopold of Osia promised a sedate and 
exemplary life. Sometimes the Captain shook his head, as if 
communing with some unpleasant thought. On each side of him sat 
a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.

At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards. 
The wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring 
shadows on the wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks 
twinkled. If the players spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the 
Captain's ears.

"Our bread and butter," said the Captain softly, "are likely to 
take unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away."

No one replied. The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his 
thoughts aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed 
utterances.

"A soldier of fortune," he went on, "pins his faith and zeal to 
standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall. Unfortunately, 
he takes it at flood tide, which immediately begins to ebb."

The men on either side of him nodded wisely.

"The king can no longer speak. That is why the archbishop has 
dismissed the cabinet. While he could speak, his Majesty refused 
to listen to the downfall of his enemies. Why? Look to heaven; 
heaven only can answer. How many men of the native troops are 
quartered in these buildings? Not one--which is bad. Formerly 
they were in the majority. Extraordinary. His Majesty would have 
made friends with them, but the archbishop, an estimable man in 
his robes, practically ostracized them. Bad, very bad. Had we 
been comrades, there might be a different end.

"Faugh! if one of us sticks his head into the city barracks a 
breath of ice is our reward. Kronau never attends the receptions.
A little flattery, which costs nothing, and they would have 
been willing to die for his Majesty. Now--" He knocked his pipe 
on the firedog. "Now, they would not lift a finger. A soldier 
will forgive all things but premeditated neglect.

"As for me, when the time comes I shall return to Dresden and 
die of old age. Maybe, though, I shan't. When his Majesty dies 
there is like to be a clash. The duchess is a clever woman, but 
she would make a balky wife; a capillary affection which runs in 
the family. Red hair in a man is useful; in a woman it is 
unmanageable." He refilled his pipe and motioned toward the 
tongs. The soldier nearest caught up a brand and held it out. 
The Captain laid his pipe against it and drew. "It's a dreary 
watch I have from ten till daylight, in his Majesty's 
antechamber, but he will trust no other man at that post." And 
with this he fell into silence.

Some time passed. Twice the Captain pulled out his watch and 
looked at it. Shortly after nine o'clock the beat of hoofs came 
up the driveway, and the Captain turned his head toward the 
entrance and waited. A moment later the door opened and three 
men stood framed in the doorway. Two of them--one in civilian 
dress--were endeavoring to hold up a third between them. The 
central figure presented an alarming picture. His cuirass and 
white trousers were splashed with blood, and his head rolled 
from side to side, almost insensibly.

"A thousand devils!" exclaimed the Captain at the sight of this 
unexpected tableau. He sprang up, toppling over his chair. 
"What's this? Von Mitter? Blood? Have those damned students--"

"A brush on the lake road," interrupted Sharfenstein, 
breathlessly. "Help him over to a chair, Monsieur Carewe. That's 
it."

"Have you a knife, Captain?" asked Maurice.

The Captain whipped out his knife, locked it, and gave it to 
Maurice. "Riemer," he called to one of the cuirassiers, who were 
rising from the mess table, "bring out your box of instruments; 
and you, Scharfenstein, a basin of cold water. Quick!"

Maurice knelt and deftly cut away the Lieutenant's boot. A pool 
of blood collected on the floor.

"God save us!" cried the Captain, "his boot is full of blood." 
He turned to Scharfenstein, who was approaching with the basin. 
"What has happened, Max?"

Scharfenstein briefly explained.

"And Kopf?"

"Got away, curse him!"

"And the others?" with a lowering brow.

"They all got away," adding an oath under his breath. Max set 
the basin on the floor.

"Bad, very bad. Why didn't you shoot?"

"He was afraid of hitting Mademoiselle Bachelier," Maurice 
interposed.

Max threw him a grateful look.

"Humph!" The Captain called his men around him. "Two of you--. 
But wait. Who's back of Kopf?"

"Our distinguished Colonel," snapped Max, "who was this day 
relieved of his straps. A case of revenge, probably."

"Beauvais! Ah, ah!" The Captain smiled grimly. He had always 
hated Beauvais, who had, for no obvious reason, passed him and 
grasped the coveted colonelcy, and because, curiously enough, 
the native troops had made an idol of him. "Beauvais? I am not 
surprised. An adventurer, with neither kith nor country."

"He is Prince Walmoden," said Maurice, "and for some reason not 
known, the emperor has promised to recall him."

This information caused the Captain to step back, and he 
muttered the name several times. "Austria. . . ." A gloom 
settled on his face. "No matter. Prince or no prince, or had he 
one thousand emperors behind him, no matter. Four of you seek 
him and arrest him. If he offers resistance, knock him on the 
head, but arrest him. A traitor is without name, country or 
respect. His purpose . . . Never mind.

"Four of you seek for Kopf. Look into Stuler's, in at the opera, 
and follow Kopf's woman home. I'll take it upon myself to 
telegraph the frontier to allow no one to cross on the pain of 
being shot. Pass the word to the officers in the stables. Hurry 
away before the archbishop hears of the matter. Away with you, 
and quietly. And one of you seek that blockhead of a coachman, 
who did not know enough to come back here and inform us. 
Beauvais, make him a prisoner, you are not to know why. As for 
Kopf, dead or alive--alive will be less convenient for all 
concerned. Off with you!"

The guardroom was at once emptied, and the cuirassiers turned 
off toward the stables, where the main body of the troops was 
stationed.

Riemer, who was both surgeon and soldier, probed the wound in 
von Miner's leg and extracted the bullet, which had lodged in 
the fleshy part of the calf. He applied cold water, lints and 
bandages. All the while von Mitter sat in the chair, his eyes 
shut and his lips closed tightly.

"There!" said the surgeon, standing up, "that's better. The loss 
of blood is the worst part of it." Next he took a few stitches 
in the cut on the cheek and threw his cloak over the wounded 
man's knee. "He'll be all right in a day or so, though he'll 
limp. Carl?"

"O, I'm sound enough," answered von Mitter, opening his eyes. "A 
little weak in the knees, that's all. I shouldn't have given in, 
only Kopf got away when we had him fair and fast. We found his 
horse wandering about the Frohngarten, but no sign of Johann. 
He's got it, though, square in the back."

"I'm sure of it," said Maurice, who leaned over the back of the 
speaker's chair.

The Captain eyed him inquiringly.

"Pardon me," said Scharfenstein. "Captain, Monsieur Carewe, an 
American tourist, formerly of the United States cavalry. And a 
pretty shot, too, by the book! It would have gone badly with us 
but for him."

"My thanks," said the Captain, with a jerky nod. "Max, come, 
give me the whole story."

And Scharfenstein dropped into a chair and recounted in 
picturesque diction the adventure; how they had remained by the 
royal carriage till the nurse, recovering from her faint, had 
rushed out and told them of the abduction; and the long race on 
the south shore. While he listened the Captain smoked 
thoughtfully; and when the story was done, he rose and wagged 
his head.

"Call it revenge," he said, "if it strikes you in that light. 
Monsieur Carewe, what is your opinion?"

"It occurs to me," answered Maurice, rubbing the scratch the 
late Colonel's sword had left on his chin, "it occurs to me that 
the man played his hand a few days too late."

"Which is to say?"

"Well, I do not call it revenge," Maurice admitted, unwilling to 
venture any theory.

"No more do I;" and the Captain began drumming on the mantel. 
"What say, Max; how would the illustrious Colonel look with the 
shadow of a crown on his head? He comes from Austria, who, to my 
thinking, is cognizant of all he does and has done."

The answer was not spoken. The door, leading to the main palace 
through the kitchens, opened, and the Marshal, the princess, and 
the maid of honor came down the steps. The Captain, Max and the 
surgeon stood at salute. Maurice, however, drew back into the 
shadows at the side of the grate. The old soldier gazed down at 
the pale face of the young Lieutenant, and smiled kindly.

"Even the best of soldiers make mistakes," he said; "even the 
best. No," as von Mitter made an attempt to speak. "I've heard 
all about it, and from a most reliable source," nodding toward 
the anxious maid of honor. "Colonel," he addressed the Captain, 
whose eyes started at this appellation, "Colonel, you will 
report to me in the morning to assume your new duties. You have 
been a faithful Captain and a good soldier. I know your value, 
your name and your antecedents, which till now was more than I 
knew of your late predecessor. Von Mitter will take upon himself 
your duties as Captain of the household troop; and you, 
Scharfenstein, will hereafter take charge of her Royal 
Highness's carriage, and you may choose whom you will as your 
comrade."

"I have always tried to do my duty," said von Mitter. He felt a 
small hand secretly press his.

"And you have always succeeded, Captain," said a voice which 
made Maurice's foolish heart leap. "See, I am the first to give 
you your new rank. How you must suffer!"

"God bless your Royal Highness!" murmured the fellow, at once 
racked with pain and happiness. "But I am not the one you must 
thank for this night's work."

The Marshal peered at the silent figure beyond the fireplace. 
Maurice was compelled to stand forth. "Ah!" said the Marshal.

"Yes," went on von Mitter, "but for him no one knows what the 
end might have been. And I, thinking him one of the abducting 
party coming up from the rear, shot at him."

The princess took a step forward, anxiety widening her dark eyes;
and the swift glance added to the fever in the recipient's 
veins. . . . How beautiful she was, and how far away! He laid 
his hand on the top of von Mitter's chair.

"Monsieur Carewe," said the Marshal, "seems to have plenty of 
leisure time on his hands--fortunately for us. You were not hit?"

"O, no," said Maurice, blushing. He had discerned an 
undercurrent of raillery in the Marshal's tones. "The ball came 
close to my ear, that was all. It is strange how that fellow got 
away. I am positive that I hit him."

"We shall find him," said the Marshal, with a look at the newly-
appointed Colonel which said: "Your straps hang in the balance." 
He rubbed his nose. "Well, is your Royal Highness satisfied that 
there is no danger?"

"Yes, Marshal; but think, if he should have been killed! Ah, 
what does it all mean? What had this man against me, who have 
always been kind to him?"

"We shall, with your Highness's permission," said the Marshal, 
"leave all questions to the future. Let us return to the 
archbishop, who is doubtless awaiting the news. Take good care 
of yourself, Captain. To-morrow, Colonel; good evening to you, 
Monsieur Carewe;" and the terse old soldier proceeded to the 
door and held it open for the women.

"Good night, Messieurs," said her Highness. "I shall not forget. 
Thanks to you, Captain." One more glance, and she was gone. But 
this glance blossomed in one heart into a flower of hope.

The Marshal, having closed the door behind the women, returned 
to the group before the fireplace. They watched him interestedly.

"Colonel," he said, "make no effort to seek Beauvais. As for 
Kopf, that is different. But Beauvais--"

"To let him go?" exclaimed the Colonel in dismay.

"Aye, to let him go. We do not seek bears with birdshot, and 
that is all we have. He will leave the country."

"And go to the duchy!"

"So much the better; when the time comes, our case against him 
will be so much the stronger. Mind you, this is not from 
sentiment. I have none," glaring around to see if any dared 
refute this assertion. "It is policy, and Monseigneur concurs 
with me."

"But I have sent men after him!" cried the Colonel, in keen 
disappointment.

"Send men after them to rescind the order."

"And if they should catch him?"

"Let him go; that is my order. The servant will be sufficient 
for our needs. Monsieur Carewe, I rely on your discretion;" and 
the Marshal passed into the kitchens.

The men looked at each other in silence. A moment later the 
Colonel dashed from the room, off to the stables.

"Well, I'm off," said Maurice. The desire to tell what he knew 
was beginning to master him. It was too late now, he saw that. 
Besides, they might take it into their heads to detain him. He 
put on his hat. "Good night; and good luck to your leg, Captain."

"Till to-morrow," said von Mitter, who had taken a fancy to the 
smooth-faced young American, who seemed at home in all places.

"I am going away to-morrow," said Maurice, pressing the 
Lieutenant's hand. "I shall return in a day or so."

He led his horse to the hotel stables, lit a fresh cigar and 
promenaded the terrace. "Some day," he mused, "perhaps I'll be 
able to do something for myself. To-morrow we'll take a look at 
Fitzgerald's affairs, like the good fairy we are. If the Colonel 
is there, so much the worse for one or the other of us." He 
laughed contentedly. "Beauvais took my warning and lit out, or 
his henchman would never have made a botch of the abduction. It 
is my opinion that Madame wanted a hostage, for it is impossible 
to conceive that the man made the attempt on his own 
responsibility. I shall return to the duchy in a semi-official 
character as an envoy extraordinary to look into the whereabouts 
of one Lord Fitzgerald. Devil take me, but I did make a mess of 
it when I slapped him on the shoulder that night." The princess 
had not addressed a word to him. Why?

When the princess and her maid of honor had passed through the 
kitchens into the princess's boudoir, the maid suddenly caught 
her mistress's hand and imprinted a hasty kiss on it, to the 
latter's surprise and agitation. There was something in that 
kiss which came nearer to sincere affection than Mademoiselle 
Bachelier had ever shown before.

"Camille?"

"God bless your Highness!" whispered the girl, again pressing 
the cold hand to her lips. What had given rise to this new-born 
affection she herself could not say, but a sudden wave of pity 
rushed into her heart. Perhaps it was because she loved and was 
loved that caused this expansion of heart toward her mistress, 
who was likely never to love or beget love, who stood so lonely. 
Tears came into her eyes.

"You are hysterical!" said the princess.

"No; it is because--because--" She stopped and a blush suffused 
her face and temples.

The princess took the face between her hands and gazed long and 
earnestly into it. "Have you discovered a belated pity in your 
heart for me? Or is it because you thought him wounded unto 
death, and he was not?"

"It is both!" weeping.

The princess put her arms around the maid. "And you weep for 
happiness? Let us weep together, then; only--I can not weep for 
happiness."

To return to the flight of Kopf. As he dashed down the road he 
heard two reports. At the second he experienced a terrible 
burning blow under the right shoulder-blade, and immediately his 
arm became paralyzed. He coughed. With a supreme effort he 
managed to recover his balance. Already his collar-bone had been 
cracked by a bullet either from von Mitter or from Scharfenstein.

"God's curse on them all!" he sobbed, pushing his knees into his 
horse; "God's curse!" He bit his lips; and when he drew his 
breath the pain which followed almost robbed him of his senses. 
Behind him the sound of hoofs came no nearer; he had a chance. 
He could not look back to see if he gained, however, as his neck 
was stiffening.

"Curse him and his damned gold! He never warned me as he said he 
would." On he rode. The moon became obscured, and when it 
flashed again he could see it but indistinctly. . . . To reach 
the city, to reach Gertrude's, to give the horse a cut and send 
him adrift, this was his endeavor. But would he reach the city--
alive? Was he dying? He could not see . . . Yet again he shut 
his jaws and drew on his entire strength. He was keeping in the 
saddle by will power alone. If the horse faltered he was lost. 
To Gertrude; she could use them. And after all he loved her. If 
he died she would be provided for.

The first of the city lamps. He sobbed. Into this street he 
turned, into that, expecting each moment to be challenged, for 
the white saddle blanket of the cuirassiers stood out 
conspicuously. At last he had but a corner to turn. He stopped, 
slid from the saddle and gave the animal a cut across the face. 
The horse reared, then plunged forward at a wild gallop. Johann 
staggered along the street, fumbling in his pockets for his keys.

Gertrude of the opera company was usually in the ballet. To-
night she had left the stage after the first dance. She had 
complained of a severe headache, and as the manager knew her 
worth he had permitted her withdrawal from the corps. She lived 
off the Frohngarten, in an apartment on the second floor, over a 
cheap restaurant. She was bathing her temples in perfumed 
ammonia water, when she heard footsteps in the corridor, and 
later the rasp of a key in the lock. As the door opened she 
beheld a spectacle which caused her to scream.

"Hush! Gertrude, I am dying. . . . Brandy! I must talk to you! 
Silence!" Johann tottered to a lounge and dropped on his side.

The woman, still trembling with fright and terror, poured into 
her palm some of the pungent liquid with which she had been 
bathing her temples, and held it under his nose. It revived him. 
And in a few broken sentences he made known to her what had 
happened.

"Gertrude, I am lost!" He breathed with difficulty. "I have 
lived like a rascal, and I die like one. But I have always loved 
you; I have always been true to you; I have never beaten nor 
robbed you." His eyes closed.

"O God," she cried, "what shall I do? Johann, you must not die! 
We will leave the country together. Johann, you do not speak! 
Johann!" She kissed him, pressed him in her arms, regardless of 
the stains which these frantic fondlings gathered from his 
breast. "Johann!"

"Rich," he said dreamily; "rich . . . and to die like a dog!"

She left him and rushed to the sideboard, poured out a tumbler 
of brandy, and returned to his side. She raised his head, but he 
swallowed with effort.

"In the lungs," he said. "God! how it burns! Rich; we are rich, 
Gertrude; a hundred thousand crowns. . . . And I am dying! . . . 
What a failure! Curse them all; they never offered to lend a 
hand unless it led toward hell! Gertrude . . . I must tell you. 
Here; here, put your hand in this pocket; yes. Draw them out. . .
A hundred thousand crowns!"

The woman shuddered. Her hand and what it held were wet with 
blood.

"Hide them!" And Johann fainted away for the second time. When 
he came to his senses, several minutes had passed. Quickly, with 
what remaining strength he had, he unfolded his plan.

And her one idea was to save him. She drenched her handkerchief 
with the ammonia, and bade him hold it to his nose, while she 
fetched a basin of water and a sponge. Tenderly she drew back 
his coat and washed the blood from his throat and lips, and 
moistened his hair.

"Listen!" he cried suddenly, rising on his elbow. "It is they! 
They have found me! Quick! to the roof!" He struggled to his 
feet, with that strength which imparts itself to dying men, 
super-human while it lasts. He threw one arm around her neck. 
"Help me!"

And thus they gained the hall, mounted the flight to the roof, 
he groaning and urging, she sobbing, hysterical, and frenzied. 
She climbed the ladder with him, threw back the trap, and helped 
him on the roof.

"Now leave me!" he said, kissing her hand.

She gave him her lips, and went down to her rooms, and waited 
and waited. This agony of suspense lasted a quarter of an hour, 
when again came the clatter of hoofs. Would this, too, prove a 
false alarm? She held her hand to her ear. If he were dying. . . 
They had stopped; they were mounting the stairs; O God, they 
were beating on the door!

"Open!" cried a voice without; "open in the king's name!"

She gasped, but words would not come. She clenched her hands 
until the nails sank into the flesh.

"Open, Madame, or down comes the door."

The actress in her came to the rescue. The calm of despair took 
possession of her.

"In a moment, Messieurs," she said. Her voice was without 
agitation. She opened the door and the cuirassiers pushed past 
her. "In heaven's name, Messieurs, what does this mean?"

"We want Johann Kopf," was the answer, "and we have it from good 
authority that he is here. Do not interfere with us; you are in 
no wise connected with the affair."

"He is not here," she replied. She wondered at herself, her 
tones were so even, her mind was so clear.

One of the cuirassiers caught up her gown. "What's this, 
Madame?" he demanded, pointing to the dark wet stains; "and 
this?" to her hands, "and this?" to the spots on the carpet, the 
basin and the sponge. "To the roof, men; he has gone by the roof!
Up with you!"

The ballet dancer held forth her hands in supplication; life 
forsook her limbs; she sank.

The cuirassiers rushed to the roof. . . . When they came down it 
was slowly and carefully. What they had found on the roof was of 
no use to them. They laid the inanimate thing on the lounge, and 
frowned. One of the cuirassiers lifted the ballet dancer and 
carried her into her bed-room, and laid her on the bed. He had 
not the heart to revive her. Death softens all angers; even an 
enemy is no longer such when dead. And Johann Kopf was dead.




CHAPTER XXI


A COURT FETE AT THE RED CHATEAU

At eight o'clock of the following evening, that is to say, the 
nineteenth of September, Maurice mounted the Thalian pass and 
left the kingdom in the valley behind him. He was weary, dusty, 
lame and out of humor; besides, he had a new weight on his 
conscience. The night before he had taken the life of a man. 
True, this had happened before, but always in warfare. He had 
killed in a moment of rage and chagrin a poor devil who was at 
most only a puppet. There was small credit in the performance. 
However, the rascal would have suffered death in any event, his 
act being one of high treason.

In the long ride he had made up his mind to lock away forever 
the silly dream, the tender, futile, silly dream. All men die 
with secrets locked in their hearts; thus he, too, would die. 
His fancy leaped across the chasm of intervening years to the 
day of his death, and the thought was a happy one! He smiled 
sadly, as young men smile when they pity themselves. He knew 
that he would never get over it--in a day. But to-morrow, or to-
morrow's to-morrow . .

He took the pass's decline; the duchy spread away toward the 
south. A quarter of a mile below him he saw the barrack and the 
customs office which belonged to Madame the duchess. The 
corporal inspected him and his papers, spoke lowly to the 
customs inspector, who returned to his office.

"It is all right, Monsieur Carewe," said the corporal; "I ought 
to recognize the horse a mile away. You will arrive just in time."

"Just in time for what?"

"Ah, true. Her Highness gives a grand ball at the chateau to-
night. The court has arrived from Brunnstadt. Some will reside 
at the chateau, some at General Duckwitz's, others at the 
Countess Herzberg's."

"Has the duchess arrived at last, then?" was the cynical inquiry.

"She will arrive this evening," answered the corporal, grinning. 
"A pleasant journey to you."

Maurice proceeded. "And that blockhead of an Englishman has not 
tumbled yet! The court here? A grand ball? What else can it mean 
but that Madame is celebrating a victory to come? If the 
archbishop has those consols, she will wage war; and this is the 
prelude." He jogged along. He had accomplished a third of the 
remaining distance, when he was challenged. The sentry came 
forward and scrutinized the rider.

"O, it is Monsieur Carewe !" he cried in delighted tones. He 
touched his cap and fell back into the shadows.

A mile farther, and the great chateau, scintillating with lights,
loomed up against the yellow sky. He felt a thrill of excitement.
Doubtless there would be some bright passages before the night 
drew to a close. He would make furious love to the pretty 
countess; it would be something in the way of relaxation. How 
would they greet him? What would be Madame's future plans in 
regard to Fitzgerald? How would she get him out of the way, now 
that he had served her purpose? He laughed.

"The future promises much," he said, half aloud. "I am really 
glad that I came back."

"Halt!"

Maurice drew up. A sentry stepped out into the road.

"O, it is Monsieur Carewe!" he cried. With a short laugh he 
disappeared.

"Hang me," grumbled Maurice as he went on, "these fellows have 
remarkable memories. I can't recollect any of them." He was 
mystified.

Shortly he came upon the patrol. The leader ordered him to 
dismount, an order be obeyed willingly, for he was longing to 
stand again. He shook his legs, while the leader struck a match.

"Why, it is Monsieur Carewe!" he cried. "Good! We are coming out 
to meet you. This is a pleasure indeed."

Maurice gazed keenly into the speaker's face, and to his 
surprise beheld the baron whose arm he had broken a fortnight 
since. He climbed on his horse again.

"I am glad you deem it a pleasure, baron," he said dryly. "From 
what you imply, I should judge that you were expecting me."

"Nothing less! Your departure from Bleiberg was known to us as 
early as two o'clock this after-noon," answered the baron. 
"Permit us to escort you to the chateau before the ladies see 
you. 'Tis a gala night; we are all in our best bib and tucker, 
as the English say. We believed at one time that you were not 
going to honor us with a second visit. Now to dress, both of us; 
at ten Madame the duchess arrives with General Duckwitz and 
Colonel Mollendorf, who is no relation to the late minister of 
police in Bleiberg."

Underneath all this Maurice discerned a shade of mockery, and it 
disturbed him.

"First, I should like to know--" he began.

"Later, later!" cried the baron. "The gates are but a dozen rods 
away. To your room first; the rest will follow."

"The only clothes I have with me are on my back," said Maurice.

"We shall arrange that. Your guard-hussar uniform has been 
reserved for you, at the suggestion of the Colonel."

And Maurice grew more and more disturbed.

"Were they courteous to you on the road?"

"Yes. But--"

"Patience! Here we are at the rear gates."

Maurice found it impossible to draw back; three troopers blocked 
the rear, the baron and another rode at his sides, and four more 
were in advance. The rear gates swung open, and the little troop 
passed into the chateau confines. Maurice snatched a glimpse of 
the front lawns and terraces. The trees and walls were hung with 
Chinese lanterns; gay uniforms and shimmering gowns flitted 
across his vision. Somewhere within the chateau an orchestra was 
playing the overture from "Linda di Chamounix." Indeed, with all 
these brave officers, old men in black bedecked with ribbons, 
handsome women in a brilliant sparkle of jewels, it had the 
semblance of a gay court. It was altogether a different scene 
from that which was called the court of Bleiberg. There was no 
restraint here; all was laughter, music, dancing, and wines. The 
women were young, the men were young; old age stood at one side 
and looked on. And the charming Voiture-verse of a countess, 
Maurice was determined to seek her first of all. He vaguely 
wondered how Fitzgerald would carry himself throughout the ordeal.

The troopers dismounted in the courtyard.

"I'm a trifle too stiff to dance," Maurice innocently 
acknowledged.

The baron laughed. "You will have to take luck with me in the 
stable-barrack; the chateau is filled. The armory has been 
turned into a ballroom, and the guard out of it."

"Lead on!" said Maurice.

At the entrance to the guardroom, which occupied the left wing 
of the stables, stood a Lieutenant of the hussars.

"This is Monsieur Carewe," said the baron, "who will occupy a 
corner in the guardroom."

"Ah! Monsieur Carewe," waving his hand cavalierly; "happy to see 
you again."

Maurice was growing weary of his name.

"Enter," said the baron, opening the door.

Maurice entered, but not without suspicion. However, he was in a 
hurry to mingle with the gay assembly in the chateau. But that 
body was doomed to proceed without the honor or the knowledge of 
his distinguished presence. Several troopers were lounging about.
At the sight of the baron they rose.

"Messieurs," he said, "this is Monsieur Carewe, who was expected."

"Glad to see you!" they sang out in chorus. They bowed 
ironically.

Maurice gazed toward the door. As he did so four pairs of arms 
enveloped him, and before he could offer the slightest 
resistance, he was bound hand and foot, a scarf was tied over 
his mouth, and he was pushed most disrespectfully into a chair. 
The baron's mouth was twisted out of shape, and the troopers 
were smiling.

"My faith! but this is the drollest affair I ever was in;" and 
the baron sat on the edge of the table and held his sides. 
"Monsieur Carewe! Ha! ha! You are a little too stiff to dance, 
eh? Shall I tender your excuses to the ladies? Ass! did you 
dream for a moment that such canaille as you, might show your 
countenance to any save the scullery maids? Too stiff to dance! 
Ye gods, but that was rich! And you had the audacity to return 
here! I must go; the thing is killing me." He slipped off the 
table, red in the face and choking. "The telegraph has its uses; 
it came ahead of you. We trembled for fear you would not come! 
Men, guard him as your lives, while I report to Madame, I dare 
say she will make it droller in the telling."

He stepped to the door, turned, looking into the prisoner's 
glaring eyes; he doubled up again. "We are quits; I forgive you 
the broken arm; this laugh will repay me. How Madame the 
countess will laugh! And Duckwitz--the General will die of 
apoplexy! O, but you are a sorry ass; and how neatly we have 
clipped your ears!" And into the corridor he went, still 
laughing, heartily and joyously, as if what had taken place was 
one of the finest jests in the world.

Maurice, white and furious, was positive that he never would 
laugh again. And the most painful thought was that his honesty 
had brought him to this pass--or, was it his curiosity?

*   *   *   *   *

Fitzgerald stood alone in the library. The music of a Strauss 
waltz came indistinctly to him. He was troubled, and the speech 
of it lay in his eyes. From time to time he drummed on the 
window sill, and followed with his gaze the shadowy forms on the 
lawns. He was not a part of this fairy scene. He was out of 
place. So many young and beautiful women eyeing him curiously 
confused him. In every glance he innocently read his disgrace.

At Madame's request he had dressed himself in the uniform of a 
Lieutenant-Colonel, which showed how deeply he was in the toils. 
Though it emphasized the elegant proportions of his figure, it 
sat uncomfortably upon him. His vanity was not equal to his 
sense of guilt. The uniform was a livery of dishonor. He could 
not distort it into a virtue, try as he would. He lacked that 
cunning artifice which a man of the world possesses, that of 
winning over to the right a misdeed.

And Carewe, on whose honesty he would have staked his life, 
Carewe had betrayed him. Why, he could not conceive. He saw how 
frail his house of love was. A breath and it was gone. What he 
had until to-day deemed special favors were favors common to all 
these military dandies. They, too, could kiss Madame's hand, and 
he could do no more. And yet she held him. Did she love him? He 
could not tell. All he knew was that it was impossible not to 
love her. And to-night he witnessed the culmination of the woman 
beautiful, and it dazzled him, filled him with fears and 
oppressions. . . . To bind her hand and foot, to carry her by 
force to the altar, if need; to call her his in spite of all.

If she were playing with him, making a ball of his heart and her 
fancy a cup, she knew not of the slumbering lion within. He 
himself was but dimly conscious of it. Princess? That did not 
matter. Since that morning the veil had fallen from his eyes, 
but he had said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak. Would 
she laugh at him? No, no! The knowledge that had come to him had 
transformed wax into iron. Princess? She was the woman who had 
promised to be his wife.

Only two candles burned on the mantel-piece. The library was a 
room apart from the festivities. A soft, rose-colored darkness 
pervaded the room. Presently a darker shadow tiptoed over the 
threshold. He turned, and the shadow approached. Madame's gray 
eyes, full of lambent fires, looked into his own.

"I was seeking you," she said. The jewels in her hair threw a 
kind of halo above her head.

"Have I the happiness to be necessary to you?" he asked.

"You have not been enjoying yourself."

"No, Madame; my conscience is, unhappily, too green." He turned 
to the window again for fear he would lose control of himself.

"I have a confession to make to you," she said humbly. How broad 
his shoulders were, was her thought.

"It can not concern me," he replied.

"How?"

"There is only one confession which I care to hear. You made it 
once, though you are not willing to repeat it. But I have your 
word, Sylvia; I am content. Not all the world could make me 
believe that you would willingly retract that word."

Her name, for the first time coming from his lips, caused her to 
start. She sent him a penetrating glance, but it broke on a face 
immobile as marble.

"I do not recollect granting you permission to use my given name,"
she said.

"O, that was before the world. But alone, alone as we are, you 
and I, it is different." The smile which accompanied these words 
was frankness itself, but it did not deceive Madame, who read 
his eyes too well. "Ali, but the crumbs you give this love of 
mine are so few!" "You are the only man in the world permitted 
to avow love to me. You have kissed my hand."

"A privilege which seems extended to all."

Madame colored, but there was not light enough for him to 
perceive it.

"The , hand you kissed is the hand of the woman; others kiss it 
to pay homage. Monsieur, 'forgive me for having deceived you, 
you were so easy to deceive." His eyes met hers steadily.

"I am not Madame simply. I am Stephonia Sylvia Auersperg; the name
I assumed was my mother's." His lack of surprise alarmed her.

"I am well aware of that," he said. "You are the duchess."

Something in his tone warned her of a crisis, and she put forth 
her cunning to avert it. "And. you-you will not love me less?" 
her voice vibrant as the string of a viol. "I am a princess, but 
yet a woman. In me there are two, the woman and the princess. 
The princess is proud and ambitious; to gain her ends she stops 
at nothing. As a princess she may stoop to trickery and deceit, 
and step back untouched. But the woman-ah, well; for this 
fortnight I have been most of all the woman."

"And all this to me-is a preamble to my dismissal, since my 
promise remains unfulfilled? Madame, do not think that because 
fate has willed that my promise should become void, that my 
conscience acquits me of dishonor. For love of you I have thrown 
honor to the winds. But do I regret it? No. For I am mad, and 
being mad, I am not capable of reason. I have broken all those 
ties which bind a man's respect to himself. I have burned all 
bridges, but I laugh at that. It is only with the knowledge that 
your love is mine that I can hold high my head.

"As the princess in you is proud, so is the man in me. A 
princess? That is nothing; I love you. Were you the empress of 
all the Russias, the most unapproachable woman in the world, I 
should not hesitate to profess my love, to find some means of 
declaring it to you. I love you. To what further depths can I 
fall to prove it?" Again he sought the window, and leaned 
heavily on the sill. He waited, as a man waits for an expected 
blow.

As she listened a delicious sensation swept through her heart, a 
sensation elusive and intangible. She surrendered without 
question. At this moment the Eve in her evaded all questions. 
Here was a man. The mood which seized her was as novel as this 
love which asked nothing but love, and the willingness to pay 
any price; and the desire to test both mood and love to their 
full strength was irresistible. She was loved for herself alone; 
hitherto men had loved the woman less and the princess more. To 
surrender to both mood and love, if only for an hour or a day, 
to see to what length this man would go at a sign from her.

He was almost her equal in birth; his house was nearly if not 
quite as old and honored as her own; in his world he stood as 
high as she stood in hers. She had never committed an 
indiscretion; passion had never swayed her; until now she had 
lived by calculation. As she looked at him, she knew that in all 
her wide demesne no soldier could stand before him and look 
straight into his eyes. So deep and honest a book it was, so 
easily readable, that she must turn to its final pages. Love 
him? No. Be his wife? No. She recognized that it was the feline 
instinct to play which dominated her. Consequences? Therein lay 
the charm of it.

"Patience, Monsieur," she said. "Did I promise to be your wife? 
Did I say that I loved you? ~Eh, bien~, the woman, not the 
princess, made those vows. I am mistress not only of my duchy, 
but of my heart." She ceased and regarded him with watchful eves.
He did not turn. "Look at me, John!" The voice was of such 
winning sweetness that St. Anthony himself, had he heard it, 
must have turned. "Look at me and see if I am more a princess 
than a woman."

He wheeled swiftly. She was leaning toward him, her face was 
upturned. No jewel in her hair was half so lustrous as her eyes. 
From the threaded ruddy ore of her hair rose a perfume like the 
fabulous myrrhs of Olympus. Her lips were a cup of wine, and her 
eyes bade him drink, and the taste of that wine haunted him as 
long as he lived. He made as though to drain the cup, but Madame 
pushed down his arms, uttered a low, puzzled laugh, and vanished 
from the room. He was lost! He knew it; yet he did not care. He 
threw out his arms, dropped them, and settled his shoulders. A 
smile, a warm, contented smile, came into his face and dwelt 
there. For another such kiss he would have bartered eternity.

And Madame? Who can say?




CHAPTER XXII


IN WHICH MAURICE RECURS TO OFFENBACH

Midnight; the music had ceased, and the yellow and scarlet 
lanterns had been plucked from the autumnal hangings. The 
laughing, smiling, dancing women, like so many Cinderellas, had 
disappeared, and with them the sparkle of jewels; and the 
gallant officers had ridden away to the jingle of bit and spur. 
Throughout the courtly revel all faces had revealed, besides the 
happiness and lightness of spirit, a suppressed eagerness for 
something yet to come, an event surpassing any they had yet 
known.

Promptly at midnight Madame herself had dropped the curtains on 
the gay scene because she had urgent need of all her military 
household at dawn, when a picture, far different from that which 
had just been painted, was to be limned on the broad canvas of 
her dreams. Darkness and quiet had fallen on the castle, and the 
gray moon film lay on terrace and turret and tile.

In the guardroom, Maurice, his hands and feet still in pressing 
cords, dozed in his chair. He had ceased to combat drowsiness. 
He was worn out with his long ride, together with the chase of 
the night before; and since a trooper had relieved his mouth of 
the scarf so that he could breathe, he cared not what the future 
held, if only he might sleep. It took him a long time to arrive 
at the angle of comfort; this accomplished, he drifted into 
smooth waters. The troopers who constituted his guard played 
cards at a long table, in the center of which were stuck half a 
dozen bayonets, which served as candlesticks. They laughed 
loudly, thumped the board, and sometimes sang. No one bothered 
himself about the prisoner, who might have slept till the crack 
of doom, as far as they were concerned.

Shortly before the new hour struck, the door opened and shut. A 
trooper shook the sleeper by the sleeve. Maurice awoke with a 
start and gazed about, blinking his eyes. Before him he 
discovered Madame the duchess, Fitzgerald and Mollendorf, behind 
whom stood the Voiture-verse of a countess. The languor forsook 
him and he pulled himself together and sat as upright as his 
bonds would permit him. Something interesting was about to take 
place.

Madame made a gesture which the troopers comprehended, and they 
departed. Fitzgerald, with gloomy eyes, folded his arms across 
his breast, and with one hand curled and uncurled the drooping 
ends of his mustache; the Colonel frowned and rubbed the gray 
bristles on his upper lip; the countess twisted and untwisted 
her handkerchief; Madame alone evinced no agitation, unless the 
perpendicular line above her nose could have been a sign of such.
This lengthened and deepened as her glance met the prisoner's.

He eyed them all with an indifference which was tinctured with 
contempt and amusement.

"Well, Monsieur Carewe," said Madame, coldly, "what have you to 
say?"

"A number of things, Madame," he answered, in a tone which 
bordered the insolent; "only they would not be quite proper for 
you to hear."

The Colonel's hand slid from his lip over his mouth; he shuffled 
his feet and stared at the bayonets and the grease spots on the 
table.

"Carewe," said Fitzgerald, endeavoring to speak calmly, "you 
have broken your word to me as a gentleman and you have lied to me."

The reply was an expressive monosyllable, "O!"

"Do you deny it?" demanded the Englishman.

"Deny what?" asked Maurice.

"The archbishop," said Madame, "assumed the aggressive last 
night. To be aggressive one must possess strength. Monsieur, how 
much did he pay for those consols? Come, tell me; was he 
liberal? It is evident that you are not a man of business. I 
should have been willing to pay as much as a hundred thousand 
crowns. Come; acknowledge that you have made a bad stroke." She 
bent her head to one side, and a derisive smile lifted the 
corners of her lips.

A dull red flooded the prisoner's cheeks. "I do not understand you."

"You lie!" Fitzgerald stepped closer and his hands closed 
menacingly.

"Thank you," said Maurice, "thank you. But why not complete the 
melodrama by striking, since you have doubled your fists?"

Fitzgerald glared at him.

"Monsieur," interposed the countess, "do not forget that you are 
a gentleman; Monsieur Carewe's hands are tied."

"Unfortunately," observed Maurice.

Madame looked curiously at the countess, while Fitzgerald drew 
back to the table and rested on it.

"I can not comprehend how you dared return," Madame resumed. 
"One who watches over my affairs has informed me of your 
dishonorable act."

"What do you call a dishonorable act?" Maurice inquired quietly.

"One who breaks his sacred promise!" quickly.

The prisoner laughed maliciously. Madame had answered the 
question as he hoped she would. "Chickens come home to roost. 
What do you say to that, my lord?" to the Englishman.

This time it was not the prisoner's cheeks which reddened. Even 
Madame was forced to look away, for if this reply touched the 
Englishman it certainly touched her as deeply. Incidentally, she 
was asking herself why she had permitted the Englishman to 
possess her lips, hers, which no man save her father had ever 
possessed before. A kiss, that was all it had been, yet the 
memory of it was persistent, annoying, embarrassing. In the 
spirit of play--a spirit whose origin mystified her--she had 
given the man something which she never could regain, a particle 
of her pride.

Besides, this was not all; she had in that moment given up her 
right to laugh at him when the time came; now she would not be 
able to laugh. She regretted the folly, and bit her lip at the 
thought of it. Consequences she had laughed at; now their 
possibilities disturbed her. She had been guilty of an 
indiscretion. The fact that the Englishman had ruined himself at 
her beck did not enter her mind. The hour for that had not yet 
arrived.

Seeing that his neat barb had left them all without answer, 
Maurice said: "Doubtless the informant who watches over your 
interests and various other interests of which you have no 
inkling, was the late Colonel Beauvais? For my part, I wish it 
was the late Beauvais in the sense in which we refer to the 
departed ones. But let us give him his true name--Prince Konrad, 
the last of the Walmodens, a cashiered gamester."

Only Fitzgerald showed any surprise. Maurice once saw that the 
others were in the secret. They knew the Colonel. Did they know 
why he was in Bleiberg? Let them find it out for themselves. He 
would not lift a finger to aid them. He leaned back and yawned.

"Pardon me," he said, with mock politeness, "but my hands are 
tied, and the truth is, I am sleepy."

"Count," said Madame, "release him. He will be too well guarded 
to fear his escaping."

The Colonel performed this service with alacrity. He honestly 
admired the young fellow who so seldom lost his temper. Besides, 
he had a sneaking idea that the lad was being unjustly accused.

Maurice got up and stretched himself. He rubbed his wrists, then 
sat down and waited for the comedy to proceed.

"So you confess," said Madame, "that you sold the consols to the 
archbishop?"

"I, confess?" Maurice screwed up his lips and began to whistle 
softly:

"Voici le sabre de mon Pere."

"You deny, then?" Madame was fast losing patience, a grave 
mistake when one is dealing with a banterer.

Maurice changed the tune:

"J'aime les militaires, Leur uniforme coquet, Leur moustache et 
leur plumet--"

"Answer!" with a stamp of the foot.

"Je sais ce que je voudrais, Je voudrais etre cantiniere!" . . .

"Monsieur," said the pretty countess, after a furtive glance at 
Madame's stormy eyes, "do you deny?"

The whistle ceased. "Madame, to you I shall say that I neither 
deny nor affirm. The affair is altogether too ridiculous to 
treat seriously. I have nothing to say." The whistle picked up 
the thread again.

Doubt began to stir in the eyes of the Englishman. He looked at 
Madame with a kind of indecision, to find that she was glancing 
covertly at him. His gaze finally rested on Maurice, who had 
crossed his legs and was keeping time to the music with his foot.
Indeed, these were not the violent protestations of innocence 
he had looked for. This demeanor was not at all in accord with 
his expectations. Now that he had possessed Madame's lips 
(though she might never possess the consols), Maurice did not 
appear so guilty.

"Carewe," he said, "you have deceived me from the start."

"Ah! c'est un fameux regiment, Le regiment de la Grande Duchesse!"

"You knew that Madame was her Highness," went on the Englishman, 
"and yet you kept that a secret from me. Can you blame me if I 
doubt you in other respects?"

"Sonnez donc la trompette, Et battez les tambours!"

And the warbler nodded significantly at Madame, whose frown grew 
still darker.

"Eh! Monsieur," cried the Colonel, with a protesting hand, "you 
are out of tune!"

"I should like to know why you returned here," said Madame. 
"Either you have some plan, or your audacity has no bounds."

The whistle stopped again. "Madame, for once we agree. I, too, 
should like to know why I returned here."

"Carewe," said Fitzgerald, "if you will give me your word--"

"Do not waste your breath, Monsieur," interrupted Madame.

"Will you give me your word?" persisted Fitzgerald, refusing to 
see the warning in Madame's eyes.

"I will give you nothing, my lord; nothing. I have said that I 
will answer neither one way nor the other. The accusation is too 
absurd. Now, Madame, what is your pleasure in regard to my 
disposition?"

"You are to be locked up, Monsieur," tartly. "You are too 
inquisitive to remain at large."

"My confinement will be of short duration," confidently.

"It rests with my pleasure alone."

"Pardon me if I contradict your Highness. I returned here 
incidentally as a representative of the British ambassador in 
Vienna; I volunteered this office at the request of my own 
minister."

A shade of consternation came into the faces of his audience.

"If nothing is heard of me within two days, an investigation 
will ensue. It is very droll, but I am here to inquire into the 
whereabouts of one Lord Fitzgerald, who has disappeared. 
Telegrams to the four ends of the world have brought no news of 
his present residence. The archbishop instituted the latter 
inquiries, because it was urgent and necessary he should know."

Fitzgerald became enveloped in gloom.

"And your credentials, Monsieur?" said the duchess. "You have 
them, I presume?"

"I came as a private gentleman; a telegram to my minister in 
Vienna will bring indorsement."

"Ah! Then you shall be locked up. I can not accord you 
recognition; without the essential representations, I see 
nothing in you but an impertinent meddler. To-morrow evening you 
shall be conveyed to Brunnstadt, where you will reside for some 
time, I can assure you. Perhaps on your head will rest the blood 
of many gallant gentlemen; for within another twenty-four hours 
I shall declare war against Leopold. This will be the 
consequence of your disloyalty to your word." And she moved 
toward the door, the others imitating her. Fitzgerald, more than 
any one else, desired to get away.

And one by one they vanished. Once the countess turned and threw 
Maurice a glance which mystifled him; it was half curtained with 
tears. Presently he was alone. His eye grasped every object. 
There was not a weapon in sight; only the bayonets on the table, 
and he could scarcely hope to escape by use of one of these. A 
carafe of water stood on the table. He went to it and half 
emptied it. His back was toward the door. Suddenly it opened. He 
wheeled, expecting to see the troopers. His surprise was great. 
Beauvais was leaning against the door, a half humorous smile on 
his lips. The tableau lasted several minutes.

"Well," said Beauvais, "you do not seem very glad to see me."

Maurice remained silent, and continued to gaze at his enemy over 
the tops of the upturned bayonets.

"You are, as I said before, a very young man."

"I killed a puppet of yours last night," replied Maurice, with a 
peculiar grimness.

"Eh? So it was you? However, Kopf knew too much; he is dead, 
thanks to your service. After all, it was a stroke of war; the 
princess, whose little rose you have, was to have been a hostage."

"If she had refused to be a wife," Maurice replied.

Beauvais curled his mustache.

"I know a good deal more than Kopf."

"You do, certainly; but you are at a convenient nearness. What 
you know will be of no use to you. Let us sit down."

"I prefer to stand. The honor you do me is too delicate."

"O, you may have no fear."

"I have none--so long as my back isn't turned toward you."

Beauvais passed over this. "You are a very good blade; you 
handle a sword well. That is a compliment, considering that I am 
held as the first blade in the kingdom. It was only to-day I 
learned that formerly you had been a cavalryman in America. You 
have the making of a soldier."

Maurice bowed, his hand resting near one of the bayonets.

"You are also a soldier of fortune-like myself. You made a good 
stroke with the archbishop. You hoodwinked us all."

Maurice did not reply.

"Very well; we shall not dwell on it. You are discreet."

Maurice saw that Beauvais was speaking in good faith.

"You have something to say; come to it at once, for it is trying 
to watch you so closely."

I will give you--" He hesitated and scratched his chin. "I will 
give you ten thousand crowns as the price of your silence in 
regard to the South American affair."

A sardonic laugh greeted this proposal. "I did not know that you 
were so cheap. But it is too late."

"Too late?"

"Doubtless, since by this time the authorities are in possession 
of the interesting facts."

"I beg to differ from you."

"Do as you please," said Maurice, triumphantly. "I sent an 
account of your former exploits both to my own government and to 
the one which you so treacherously betrayed. One or the other 
will not fail to reach."

"I am perfectly well aware of that," Beauvais smiled. He reached 
into a pocket, and for a moment Maurice expected to see a pistol 
come forth. But he was needlessly alarmed. Beauvais extracted 
two envelopes from the pocket and sailed them through the 
intervening space. They fell on the table. "Put not your trust 
in hotel clerks," was the sententious observation. "At least, 
till you have discovered that no one else employs them. I am 
well served. The clerk was told to intercept your outgoing post; 
and there is the evidence. Ten thousand crowns and a safe 
conduct."

Maurice picked up the letters mechanically. They were his; the 
stamps were not canceled, but the flaps were slit. He turned 
them this way and that, bewildered. He was convinced that he 
could in no way cope with this man of curious industries, this 
man who seemed to have a key for every lock, and whom nothing 
escaped. And the wise old Marshal had permitted him to leave the 
kingdom without let or hindrance. Perhaps the Marshal understood 
that Beauvais was a sort of powder train, and that the farther 
he was away from the mine the better for all concerned.

"You are a great rascal," Maurice said finally.

"We will waive that point. The matter at present is, how much 
will it take to buy your silence for the future?"

"And I am sorry I did not kill you when I had the chance," 
continued Maurice, as if following a train of thought.

"We never realize how great the opportunity is till it has 
passed beyond our reach. Well, how much?"

"I am not in need of money."

"To be sure; I forgot. But the archbishop could not have given 
you a competence for life."

"I choked a few facts out of Kopf," said Maurice. "You will wear 
no crown--that is, earthly."

"And your heavenly one is near at hand," rejoined Beauvais.

Maurice absently fingered a bayonet.

"You refuse this conciliation on my part?" asked Beauvais.

"Positively."

"Well, then, if anything happens to you, you will have only 
yourself to blame. I will leave you to digest that suggestion. 
Your life hangs in the balance. I will give you till to-morrow 
morning to make up your mind."

"Go to the devil!"

"In that, I shall offer you the precedence." And Beauvais backed 
out; backed out because Maurice had wrenched loose one of the 
bayonets.

Maurice flung the bayonet across the room, went back to his 
chair, and tore his ill-fated letters into ribbons. When this 
was done he stared moodily at the impromptu candlesticks, and 
tried to conceive the manner in which Beauvais's threat would 
materialize.

When the troops returned to their watch, they found the prisoner 
in a recumbent position, staring at the cracks in the floor, 
oblivious to all else save his thoughts, which were by no means 
charitable or humane. They resumed their game of cards. At 
length Maurice fell into a light slumber. The next time he 
opened his eyes it was because of a peculiar jar, which 
continued; a familiar, monotonous jar, such as the tread of feet 
on the earth creates. Tramp, tramp, tramp; it was a large body 
of men on the march. Soon this was followed by a lighter and 
noisier sound --cavalry. Finally, there came the rumbling of 
heavy metal--artillery. More than an hour passed before these 
varying sounds grew indistinct.

Maurice was now fully awake. An army had passed the Red Chateau.




CHAPTER XXIII


A GAME OF POKER AND THE STAKES

The next morning Beauvais came for his answer. It was not the 
answer he had expected.

"So be it," he replied. "Your government had better appoint your 
successor at once. Good morning."

"You will die suddenly some day," said Maurice.

Beauvais shrugged, and departed.

It was a dreary long day for the prisoner, who saw no one but 
his jailers. He wondered what time they would start for 
Brunnstadt. He had never seen Brunnstadt. He hoped the city 
would interest him. Was he to be disposed of on the road? No, 
that would scarcely be; there were too many witnesses. In the 
city prison, then; that was possible. The outlook was not rose- 
colored. He set to work to challenge each of his jailers, but 
this did not serve. At five o'clock the bluff old Colonel 
Mollendorf came in. He dismissed the troopers, who were glad 
enough to be relieved.

"I'll be responsible for the prisoner from now on," he said. As 
soon as he and Maurice were alone he propped his chin and 
contemplated the sullen face of the prisoner. "Well, my son, I 
am positive that you have been accused somewhat hastily, but 
that's the way women have, jumping at conclusions before they 
read the preface. But you must give Madame credit for being 
honest in the matter, as well as the others. Beauvais is 
positive that the move of the archbishop is due to your selling 
out to him. Come, tell me the story. If you wish, I'll promise 
not to repeat it. Madame is determined to lock you up in any 
event."

There was something so likable about the old warrior that 
Maurice relented.

"There was nothing in the gun-barrels," he said. "Some one had 
entered that room before me. I thought at first that Beauvais 
had them; but he is the last man in the world to dispose of them 
to the prelate. But has the archbishop got them? I wish I knew. 
That's all there is to the story."

"And her Royal Highness's dog?" slyly.

"What! Did you hear about that?" Maurice flushed.

"There is little going on in Bleiberg that we don't hear about. 
The princess is charming. Poor girl!"

"Madame's victory will have a strange odor. Can she not let the 
king die in peace?"

"My son, she dares not. If that throne were vacant of a king-- 
Let us not talk politics."

"Madame has no love for me," said Maurice.

"Madame has no love for any one, if that will give you any 
satisfaction."

"It does. My lord the Englishman came near striking me last night."

"I would not lay that up against him. Madame was the power 
behind the throne."

"And the impulse behind Madame?" smiling.

"You are the only man who has ever crossed Madame's path; she 
can not forget it."

"And she has put me in a bad light, as far as Fitzgerald is 
concerned. A man will believe anything a woman says to him, if 
he loves her."

"Let us avoid dissertations."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Yourself; you are interesting, entertaining, and instructive," 
the Colonel answered, laughing. "I never ran across an American 
who wasn't, and I have met a number. What have you done to 
Beauvais?"

"It is not exactly what I've done; it is what I know."

"What do you know?"

Maurice repeated the story.

"And you bested him at the rapiers?" in astonishment.

"Is there anything startling about it?" asked Maurice.

"He has no match hereabout." The Colonel looked across the table 
at the smooth-faced boy-- he was scarcely else--and reflected. 
"Why did you give up the army?"

"The army in America doesn't run to good clothes; the officers 
have to work harder than the privates, and, save in Washington, 
their social status is nil. Besides, there is too much fighting 
going on all the time. Here, an officer is always on dress parade."

"Still, we are always ready. In the past we show up pretty well 
in history. But to return to Beauvais, it is very embarrassing, very."

"It will be for him, if I live long enough."

"Eh?"

"Beauvais has promised to push me off the board, to use his own 
words. I am wondering how he will do it."

"Don't let that disturb you; he will do nothing--now. Well, well;
it is all a sorry game; and I find that making history has its 
disadvantages. But I have dandled Madame as a child on my knee, 
and her wish is law; wherever her fortunes lead, I must follow. 
She will win; she can not help winning. But I pity that poor 
devil of a king, who, they say, is now bereft of speech. Ah, had 
he been a man, I could have gone into this heart and soul."

"He is on his deathbed. And his daughter, God knows what is in 
store for her. Prince Frederick is dallying with his peasant 
girl. The day for the wedding has come and gone, unless he 
turned up to-day, which is not likely."

"Which is not likely indeed," repeated the Colonel sadly. He 
pulled out his pipe, and smoked for a time. "But let us not 
judge harshly, says the Book. There may be circumstances over 
which Prince Frederick has no control. I suppose your sympathies 
are on the other side of the path. Youth is always quick and 
generous; it never stops to weigh causes or to reason why. And 
strange, its judgment is almost always unerring. I am going to 
share my dinner with you to-night. I'll try to brighten you up a 
bit."

"Thanks."

"Then after dinner we'll play poker until they come to take you 
to Brunnstadt."

"What sort of a city is it?"

"You will not see much of it; so I will not take the trouble to 
tell you that it is slightly inferior to Bleiberg."

Sure enough, when the dark of evening fell, two servants entered 
with trays and baskets, and proceeded to lay the table. They put 
new candles in the bayonets.

"Ha!" said the Colonel; "you have forgotten the wine, rascals!"

"Bring a dozen bottles," Maurice suggested, having an idea in 
mind.

"Eh?"

"Remember, Colonel, I've been a soldier and a journalist in a 
country where they only wash with water. In the summer we have 
whisky iced, in the winter we have it hot; an antidote for both 
heat and cold. Ah, Colonel, if you only might sniff a mint julep!"

"A dozen bottles, then," said the Colonel to the servants, who 
retired to execute the order.

"How old will it be?" asked Maurice.

"Twice your age, my son. But do not make any miscalculation 
about my capacity for tokayer."

"Any miscalculation?" Maurice echoed.

"Yes; if you plan to get me drunk. There are no troopers about, 
and it would be easy enough for you to slip out if I should lose 
my head."

Maurice's laugh had a false ring to it. The Colonel had made a 
very shrewd guess.

"Well!" said the Colonel, with a gesture toward the table.

They sat down, and both made an excellent dinner. Maurice 
demolished a roasted pheasant, stuffed with chestnuts, while the 
Colonel disintegrated a duck. The wine came, and the servants 
ranged six bottles on the side of each plate. It was done so 
gravely that Maurice laughed heartily. The wine was the oldest 
in Madame's cellar, and Maurice wondered at the Colonel's 
temerity in selecting it. The bottles were of thick glass, fat-
bottomed, and ungainly, and Maurice figured that there was more 
than a pint in each. It possessed a delicious bouquet. The 
Colonel emptied three bottles, with no more effect than if the 
wine had been water. Maurice did not appreciate this feat until 
he had himself emptied a bottle. It was then he saw that the 
boot was likely to be on the other foot.

He looked at the Colonel enviously; the old soldier was a gulf. 
He had miscalculated, indeed. But he was fertile in plans, and a 
more reasonable one occurred to him. He drank another bottle and 
began to talk verbosely. Later he grew confidential. He told the 
Colonel a great many things which-- had never happened, things 
impossible and improbable. The Colonel listened soberly, and 
nodded now and again. Dinner past, they pushed the remains aside 
and began to play poker, a game at which the Colonel proved to 
be no novice, much to Maurice's wonder.

"Why, you know the game as thoroughly as an Arizona corporal."

"I generally spend a month of the winter in Vienna. One of your 
compatriots taught me the interesting game." The Colonel 
shuffled the cards. "It is the great American game, so I am told."

"O, they play checkers in the New England states," said Maurice, 
hiccoughing slightly. "But out west and in all the great cities 
poker has the way."

"What have you got?" asked the Colonel, answering a call.

"Jacks full."

"Takes the pot;" and this Americanism came so naturally that 
Maurice roared.

"Poker is a great preliminary study to diplomacy," said the 
Colonel, as he scrutinized his hand. "You raise it?"

"Yes. One card. Diplomacy? So it is. I played a game with the 
Chinese ambassador in Washington one night. I was teaching him 
how to play. I lost all the ready money I had with me. Next day 
I found out that he was the shrewdest player in the diplomatic 
circles. Let's make it a jackpot."

"All the same to me."

And the game went on. Presently Maurice threw aside his coat. He 
was feeling the warmth of the wine, but he opened another bottle.

"Is there any truth," said the Colonel, "about your shooting a 
man who is found cheating in your country?"

"There is, if you can draw quicker than he." Maurice glanced at 
his hand and threw it down.

"What did you have?"

"Nothing. I was trying to fill a straight."

"So was I," said the Colonel, sweeping the board. "It's your 
deal." He unbottoned his coat.

Maurice felt a shiver of delight. Sticking out of the Colonel's 
belt was the ebony handle of a cavalry revolver, and he made up 
his mind to get it. There were no troopers around--the Colonel 
had admitted as much. He began talking rapidly, sometimes 
incoherently. In a corner of the room he saw the cords which had 
been around his wrists and ankles the night before.

"Poker," said the Colonel, "depends mostly on what you Americans 
call bluff. A bluff, as I understand it, is making the others 
think you have them when you haven't, or you haven't got them 
when you have. In one case you scare them, in the other you fish.
You're getting flushed, my son; you'll have a headache to-night;
and in an hour you start."

An hour! There was fever in Maurice's veins, but it was not 
caused wholly by the heat of the wine. How should he manage it? 
He must have that revolver.

"Call? What have you got?" asked the Colonel.

"Three kings--no, by George! only a pair. I thought a queen was 
a king. My head's beginning to get shaky. Colonel, I believe I 
am getting drunk."

"I am sure of it."

Maurice got up and rolled in an extraordinary fashion, but he 
was careful not to overdo it. He began to sing. The Colonel got 
up, too, and he was laughing. Maurice accidentally knocked over 
some empty bottles; he kicked them about.

"Sh!" cried the Colonel, coming around the table; "you'll 
stampede the horses."

Maurice staggered toward him, and the Colonel caught him in his 
arms. Maurice suddenly drew back, and the Colonel found himself 
looking into the cavernous tube of his own revolver. Not a 
muscle in his face moved.

"Take off your coat," said Maurice, quietly.

The Colonel complied. "You are not so very drunk just now."

"No. It was one of those bluffs when you make them think you 
haven't them when you have."

"What next?" asked the Colonel.

"Those cords in the corner."

The Colonel picked them up, sat down and gravely tied one around 
his ankles. Maurice watched him curiously. The old fellow was 
rather agreeable, he thought.

"Now," the Colonel inquired calmly, "how are you going to tie my 
hands? Can you hold the revolver in one hand and tie with the 
other?"

"Hang me!" exclaimed Maurice, finding himself brought to a halt.

"My son," said the Colonel, "you are clever. In fact, you are 
one of those fellows who grow to be great. You never miss an 
opportunity, and more often than not you invent opportunities, 
which is better still. The truth is, you have proceeded exactly 
on the lines I thought you would; and thereby you have saved me 
the trouble of lying or having it out with Madame. I am a victim,
not an accomplice; I was forced at the point of a revolver; I 
had nothing to say. If I had really been careless you would have 
accomplished the feat just the same. For it was easily 
accomplished you will admit. 'Tis true I knew you were acting 
because I expected you to act. All this preamble puzzles you."

Certainly Maurice's countenance expressed nothing less than 
perplexity. He stepped back a few paces.

"You have," continued the Colonel, "perhaps three-quarters of an 
hour. You will be able to get out of here. You will have to 
depend on your resources to cross the frontier."

"Would you just as soon explain to me--"

"It means that a certain young lady, like myself, believes in 
your innocence."

"The countess?" Maurice cried eagerly, remembering the look of 
the night before and the tears which were in it.

"I will not mention any names. Suffice it to say that it was due 
to her pleading that I consented to play poker--and to let you 
fall into my arms. Come, to work," holding out his hands.

First Maurice clasped the hand and wrung it. "Colonel, I do not 
want you to get into trouble on my account--"

"Go along with you! If you were really important," in half a 
banter, "it would be altogether a different matter. As it is, 
you are more in the way than anything else, only Madame does not 
see it in that light. Come, at my wrists, and take your 
handkerchief and tie it over my mouth; make a complete job of it 
while you're at it."

"But they'll wonder how I tied you--"

"By the book, the boy is quite willing to sit down and play 
poker with me till the escort comes! Don't trouble yourself 
about me; Madame has too much need of me to give me more than a 
slight rating. Hurry and be off, and remember that Beauvais has 
promised to push you off the board. Take the near path for the 
woods and strike northeast. If you run into any sentries it will 
be your own fault."

"And the army?"

"The army? Who the devil has said anything about the army?"

"I heard it go past last night."

"Humph! Keep to the right of the pass. Now, quick, before my 
conscience speaks above a whisper."

"I should like to see the countess."

"You will--if you reach Bleiberg by to-morrow night."

Maurice needed no further urging, and soon he had the Colonel 
securely bound and silenced. Next he put on the Colonel's hat 
and coat, and examined the revolver.

"It was very kind of you to load it, Colonel."

The Colonel blinked his eyes.

"Au revoir!" said Maurice, as he made for the door. "Vergis mein 
nicht!" and he was gone.

He crept down the stairs, cautiously entered the court, it was 
deserted. The moon was up and shining. The gate was locked, but 
he climbed it without mishap. Not a sentry was in sight. He 
followed the path, and swung off into the forest. He was free. 
Here he took a breathing spell. When he started onward he held 
the revolver ready. Woe to the sentry who blundered on him! For 
he was determined to cross the frontier if there was a breath of 
life in him. Moreover, he must be in Bleiberg within twenty 
hours.

He was positive that Madame the duchess intended to steal a 
march, to declare war only when she was within gunshot of 
Bleiberg. It lay with him to provent this move. His cup of wrath 
was full. From now on he was resolved to wage war against Madame 
on his own account. She had laughed in his face. He pushed on, 
examining trees, hollows and ditches. Sometimes he put his hand 
to his ear and listened. There was no sound in the great lonely 
forest, save for the low murmur of the wind through the 
sprawling boughs. Shadows danced on the forest floor. Once he 
turned and shook his clenched fist toward the spot which marked 
the location of the Red Chateau. He thanked Providence that he 
was never to see it again. What an adventure to tell at the 
clubs when he once more regained his Vienna! Would he regain it?

Why did Madame keep Fitzgerald to her strings? He concluded not 
to bother himself with problems abstract; the main object was to 
cross the Thalians by a path of his own choosing. When he had 
covered what he thought to be a quarter of a mile, he mounted a 
lookout. The highway was about three hundred yards to the left. 
That was where it should be. He saw no sentries, so he slid down 
from the tree and resumed his journey. The chestnuts, oaks, and 
firs were growing thicker and denser. A dead branch cracked with 
a loud report beneath his feet. With his heart almost in his 
throat, he lay down and listened. A minute passed; he listened 
in vain for an answering noise. He got up and went on.

Presently he came upon a cluster of trees which was capable of 
affording a hiding place for three or four men. He stood still 
and surveyed it. The moon cast moving shadows on either side of 
it, but these had no human shape. He laughed silently at his 
fear, and as he was about to pass the cluster a man stepped out 
from behind it, his eyes gleaming and his hand extended. He was 
rather a handsome fellow, but pale and emaciated. He wore a 
trooper's uniform, and Maurice, swearing softly, concluded that 
his dash for liberty had come to naught. He, too, held a 
revolver in his hand, but he dared not raise it. There was a 
certain expression on the trooper's face which precluded any 
arguing.

"If you move," the trooper said, in a mild voice; "if you utter 
a sound, I'll blow off the top of your cursed head!"




CHAPTER XXIV


THE PRISONER OF THE RED CHATEAU

There the two stood, mottled in the moonshine and shadow, with 
wild eyes and nostrils distended, the one triumphant, the other 
raging and impotent. Maurice was growing weary of fortune's 
discourtesies. He gazed alternately from his own revolver, lying 
at his feet, to the one in the hand of this unexpected visitant. 
Only two miles between him and freedom, yet he must turn back. 
The Colonel had reckoned without Madame, and therefore without 
reason. This man had probably got around in front of him when he 
climbed the tree. He turned sullenly and started to walk away, 
expecting to be followed.

"Halt! Where the devil are you going?"

"Why, back to your cursed chateau!" Maurice answered surlily.

The strange trooper laughed discordantly. "Back to the chateau? 
I think not. Now, then, right about face--march! Aye, toward the 
frontier; and if I have to go on alone, so much the worse for 
you. I've knocked in one man's head; if necessary, I'll blow off 
the top of yours. You know the way back to Bleiberg, I don't; 
that is why I want your company. Now march."

But Maurice did not march; he was filled with curiosity. "Are 
you a trooper in Madame the duchess's household?" he asked.

"No, curse you!"

"Who are you, then?"

"Come, come; this will not pass. No tricks; you have been 
following me these twenty minutes."

"The deuce I have!" exclaimed Maurice, bewildered. "To Bleiberg, 
is it?"

"And without loss of time. When we cross the Thalians I shall be 
perfectly willing to parley with you."

"To Bleiberg, then," said Maurice. "Since that is my destination,
the devil I care how I get there."

"Do you mean to tell me that you are going to Bleiberg?" 
surprise mingling with his impatience.

"No place else."

"Are you a spy?" menacingly.

"No more than you."

"But that uniform!"

"I fancy yours looks a good deal like it," Maurice replied 
testily.

"I confess I never saw you before, and your tongue has a foreign 
twist," with growing doubt.

"I am sure I never saw you before, nor want to see you again."

"What are you doing in that uniform?"

"You have the advantage of me; suppose you begin the 
introduction?"

"Indeed I have the advantage of you, and propose to maintain it. 
Who are you and what are you doing here? Answer!"

There was something in the young man's aspect which convinced 
Maurice that it would be folly to trifle. Besides, he gave to 
his words an air which distinguishes the man who commands from 
the man who serves. Maurice briefly acquainted the young man 
with his name and position.

"And you?" he asked.

"I?" The young man laughed again. It was an unpleasant laugh. 
"Never mind who I am. Let us go, we are losing time. What is the 
date?" suddenly.

"The twentieth of September," answered Maurice.

"My God, a day too late!" The young man had an attack of vertigo,
and was obliged to lean against a tree for support. "Are you 
telling me the truth about yourself?"

"I am. I myself was attempting to dispense with the questionable 
hospitality of the Red Chateau--good Lord!" striking his 
forehead.

"What's the matter?"

"Are you the mysterious prisoner of the chateau, the man they 
have been keeping at the end of the east corridor on the third 
floor?"

"Yes. And woe to the woman who kept me there! How came you 
there?"

Maurice, confident that something extraordinary was taking place,
related in synopsis his adventures.

"And this cursed Englishman?"

"Will drain a bitter cup. Madame is playing with him."

"And the king; is he dead?"

"He is dying." Maurice's wonder grew. What part had this strange 
young man in this comedy, which was rapidly developing into a 
tragedy?

"And her Highness--her Royal Highness?" eagerly clutching 
Maurice by the arm; "and she?"

"She does not murmur, though both her pride and her heart are 
sore. She has scarcely a dozen friends. Her paralytic father is 
the theme of ribald jest; and now they laugh at her because the 
one man who perhaps could have saved the throne has deserted her 
like a coward. Hang him, I say!"

"What do they say?" The tones were hollow.

"They say he is enamoured of a peasant girl, and dallies with 
her, forgetting his sacred vows, his promised aid, and perhaps 
even this, his wedding day."

"God help him!" was the startling and despairing cry. . . . He 
was again seized with the vertigo, and swayed against the tree. 
For a moment he forgot Maurice, covered his face with his 
unengaged hand, and sobbed.

Maurice was helpless; he could offer no consolation. This grief 
he could not understand. He stooped and picked up his revolver 
and waited.

"I am weak," said the other man, dashing his hand from his eyes; 
"I am weak and half starved. It would be better for all 
concerned if I blew out my brains. The twentieth, the twentieth!"
he repeated, dully. "Curse her!" he burst forth; "as there's a 
God above us, I'll have revenge. Aye, I'll return to the chateau,
Madame, that I will, but at the head of ten thousand men! . . . 
The twentieth! She will never forgive me; she will think I, too, 
deserted her!" He broke down again.

"An army!" cried Maurice.

"Aye, and ten thousand men! Come," taking Maurice by the arm; 
"come, they may be seeking us. To the frontier. Every hour is 
precious. To a telegraph office! We shall see if I dally with 
peasant girls, if I forsake the woman I love!"

"You?" Maurice retreated a step. The silver moonshine became 
tinged with red.

"I am Prince Frederick, and I love her Highness. I would 
sacrifice a thousand kingdoms to spare her a moment's sorrow. I 
have always loved her."

"What a woman!" Maurice murmured, as the scheme of Madame's 
flashed through his mind. "What a woman! And she had the 
audacity to kidnap you, too!"

"And by the most dishonorable device. I and my suite of 
gentlemen were coming to Bleiberg to make the final arrangements.
At Ehrenstein I received a telegram which requested me to visit 
till the following train a baron who was formerly a comrade of 
my father. The telegram advised me of his sudden illness, and 
that he had something important to disclose to me. I bade my 
gentlemen, save one, proceed to Bleiberg. My aide and I entered 
the carriage which was to convey us to the castle. We never 
reached it. On the road we fell into an ambush, a contrivance of 
Madame's. I was brought to the chateau. Whatever happened to 
Hofer, my aide, I do not know. Doubtless he is dead. But Madame 
shall pay, both in pride and wealth. I will lay waste this duchy 
of hers, though in the end the emperor crush me. Let us be off."

They stumbled on through the forest. So confused was Maurice 
that he forgot his usual caution. The supreme confidence of this 
woman and the flawlessness of her schemes dazed him. So far she 
had stopped at nothing; where would she end? A Napoleon in 
petticoats, she was about to appall the confederation. She had 
suppressed a prince who was heir to a kingdom triple in power 
and size to the kingdom which she coveted. Madame the duchess 
was relying on some greater power, else her plans were madness.

As for the prince, he had but one thought: to reach Bleiberg. 
The confinement, together with mental suffering, anxiety and 
forced inaction, began to tell on him. Twice he tripped and fell,
and Maurice had to return to assist him to his feet. However 
could they cross the mountains, a feat which needed both courage 
and extreme physical endurance?

"I am so weak," said the prince, "so pitiably weak! I thought to 
frighten the woman by starving myself, poor fool that I was!"

And they went on again. Maurice was beginning to feel the effect 
of his wine-bibbing; he had a splitting headache.

"Silence!" he suddenly whispered, sinking and dragging the 
prince with him.

A hundred yards in advance of them stood a sentinel, his body 
bent forward and a hand to his ear. Presently he, too, lay down. 
Five minutes passed. The sentinel rose, and convinced that his 
ears had tricked him, resumed his lonely patrol. He disappeared 
toward the west, while the fugitives made off in an easterly 
direction. Maurice was a soldier again. Every two or three 
hundred yards he knelt and pressed his ear to the cold, damp 
earth and waited for a familiar jar. The prince watched these 
movements with interest.

"You have been a soldier?" he asked.

"Yes. Perhaps we had better strike out for the mountains. The 
sentry line can not extend as far as this."

But now they could see the drab peaks of the mountains which 
loomed between the partly dismantled trees. Beyond lay the 
kingdom. Would they ever reach it? There was only one pass; this 
they dared not make. Yet if they attempted to cross the 
mountains in a deserted place, they might very easily get lost; 
for in some locations it was fully six miles across the range, 
and this, with the ups and downs and windings in and out, might 
lengthen into twenty miles. They struck out toward the mountains,
and after half an hour they came upon an unforeseen obstacle. 
They sat down in despair. This obstacle was the river, not very, 
wide, but deep, turbulent and impassable.

"We shall have to risk the pass," said Maurice, gloomily; 
"though heaven knows how we are to get through it. We have ten 
shots between us."

They followed the river. The roar of it deadened all other 
sounds. For a mile they plodded on, silent, watchful and 
meditative. The prince thought of his love; Maurice tried to 
forget his. For him the romance had come to an end, its logical 
end; and it was now only a question of getting back to the world 
to which he belonged and remaining there. He recalled a line he 
had read somewhere: a deep love, gashes into the soul as a scar 
is hewn upon the body and remains there during the whole life. . .

"Look!" cried the prince. He pointed toward the west.

Maurice came out of his dream and looked. Some distance west of 
the pass, perhaps half a mile from where they stood, Maurice saw 
the twinkle of a hundred campfires. It was Madame's army in 
bivouac.

"What does this mean?" asked the prince.

"It means that the duchess is on the eve of striking a blow for 
her crown," answered Maurice. "And how are we to make the pass, 
which is probably filled with soldiers? If only we could find a 
boat! Ah! what would your Highness call this?" He pointed to a 
thread-like line of bare earth which wended riverward.

"A sheep or cattle path," said the prince, after a close 
inspection.

"Then the river is perhaps fordable here!" exclaimed Maurice 
jubilantly. "At any rate, we'll try it; if it gets too deep, 
we'll come back."

He walked to the water's edge, studied the black whirling mass, 
shrugged and stepped in. The prince came after him, 
unhesitatingly. Both shivered. The water was intensely cold. But 
the bed was shallow, and the river never mounted above the waist.
However, in midstream it rushed strongly and wildly along, and 
all but carried them off their feet. They arrived in safety at 
the opposite shore, weak and cold in body, but warm in spirit. 
They lay on the grass for several moments, breathing heavily. 
They might now gain the pass by clambering up the mountain and 
picking their way down from the other side. It was not possible 
that Madame's troopers had entered into the kingdom.

"I am giving out," the prince confessed reluctantly. "Let us 
make as much headway as we can while I last."

They stood up. Now the moon fell upon them both; and they viewed 
each other with no little curiosity. What the prince saw pleased 
him, for he possessed a good eye. What Maurice saw was a frank, 
manly countenance, youthful, almost boyish. The prince did not 
look to be more than three and twenty, if that; but there was a 
man's determination in his jaw. This jaw pleased Maurice, for it 
confided to him that Madame had now something that would cause 
her worry.

"I put myself in your care," said the prince, offering his hand. 
"I am not equal to much. A man can not see his wedding day come 
and go without him, helpless to prevent it, and not have the 
desire to sit down and weep and curse. You will see nothing but 
the unfavorable side of me for the next dozen hours."

"I'm not altogether amiable myself," replied Maurice with a 
short laugh. "Let us get out of the moonlight," he added; "we 
are somewhat conspicuous, and besides, we should keep moving; 
this cold is paralyzing. Is your Highness equal to the climbing?"

"Equal or not, lead the way. If I fall I'll call you."

And the weary march began again; over boulders, through tangles 
of tough shrubbery, up steep inclines, around precipices, 
sometimes enveloped in mists, yet still they kept on. Often the 
prince fell over ragged stones, but he picked himself up without 
assistance; though he swore some, Maurice thought none the less 
of him for that bit of human weakness. The cold was numbing, and 
neither felt the cuts and bruises.

After two hours of this fatiguing labor they arrived upon a 
small plateau, about two thousand feet above the valley. The 
scene was solemn and imposing. The world seemed lying at their 
feet. The chateau, half hidden in the mist, sparkled like an 
opal. Maurice scowled at it. To the prince the vision was as 
reviving as a glass of wine. He threatened it with his fist, and 
plunged on with renewed vigor. There are few sensations so 
stimulating as the thought of a complete revenge. The angle of 
vision presently changed, and the historic pile vanished. 
Maurice never saw the Red Chateau again.

Little more in the way of mishap befell them; and when the moon 
had wheeled half way down from the zenith, the kingdom lay below 
them. A descent of an hour's duration brought them into the pass.
Maurice calculated that nearly five hours had passed since he 
left the chateau; for the blue was fading in the east. The 
phantom vitality of the prince now forsook him; his legs refused 
their offices, and he sank upon a boulder, his head in his hands.
Maurice was not much better; but the prince had given him the 
burden of responsibility, and he was determined to hold up under 
it.

"If your Highness will remain here," he said, "I will fetch 
assistance, for the barrack can not be far off."

The prince nodded and Maurice tramped away. But the miniature 
barrack and the quaint stone customs house both were wrapt in 
gloom and darkness. Maurice investigated. Both buildings were 
deserted; there was no sign of life about. He broke a window, 
and entered the customs office. Remembering that Colonel 
Mollendorf smoked, he searched the inner pocket of his coat. He 
drew forth a box of wax matches, struck one and looked about. A 
struggle had taken place. Evidences were strewn on the floor. 
The telegraph operator's table had been smashed into bits, the 
instrument twisted out of shape, the jars broken and the wires 
cut. Like indications of a disturbance were also found in the 
barrack.

Maurice began to comprehend. Madame's troopers had crossed the 
frontier, but they had returned again, taking with them the 
handful of troopers belonging to the king. It was plain that the 
object of this skirmish had been to destroy communications 
between Bleiberg and the frontier. Madame desired to effect a 
complete surprise, to swoop down on the capital before it could 
bring a large force into the field.

There is an unwritten law that when one country intends to wage 
war against its neighbor a formal declaration shall be made. But 
again Madame had forsaken the beaten paths. More than three 
weeks had passed since the duchy's representative in Bleiberg 
had been discredited and given his passports. At once the 
duchess had retaliated by discrediting the king's representative 
in Brunnstadt. Ordinarily this would have been understood as a 
mutual declaration of war. Instead, both governments ignored 
each other, one suspiciously, the other intentionally. All of 
which is to say, the gage of war had been flung, but neither had 
stooped to pick it up.

Perhaps Madame expected by this sudden aggressiveness to win her 
fight with as little loss of blood as possible, which in justice 
to her was to her credit. Again, a declaration of war openly 
made might have moved the confederation to veto it by coercion. 
To win without loss of life would leave the confederation 
powerless to act. Therefore it will be seen that Madame was not 
only a daring woman, but a general of no mean ability.

This post was an isolated one; between it and Bleiberg there was 
not even a village. The main pass from the kingdom into the 
duchy was about thirty miles east. Here was a small but lively 
city named Coberg, a railway center, garrisoned by one thousand 
troops. At this pass Madame's contemplated stroke of war would 
have been impossible. The railway ran directly from Coberg to 
Brunnstadt, fifty miles south of the frontier. A branch of the 
railway ran from Brunnstadt to a small town seven miles south of 
the Red Chateau, which accounts for the ease with which Madame's 
troops had reached the isolated pass. It was now likely that 
Madame would arrive before Bleiberg ere her enemies dreamed of 
the stroke. Maurice could see how well the traitorous 
administration had played into Madame's hands. Here was the one 
weak spot, and they had allowed it to remain thus weak.

"The kingdom is lost," thought Maurice. "His Highness and I may 
as well return to the chateau, for all the good our escape will 
do us. Hang them all!"

He began to forage, and discovered a bottle full of peach brandy.
He drank half the contents, reserving the remainder for the 
prince. As he lowered the bottle there came a sound which caused 
him almost to lose hold of the vigorous tonic. The sound he 
heard was the shrill whinney of a horse. He pocketed the bottle 
and dashed out to the stables. To his joy several horses stamped 
restlessly in the stalls. The attacking party had without doubt 
come on foot. He led out two, saddled and bridled them and 
returned to the prince, who had fallen asleep. Maurice roused 
him.

"To Bleiberg, your Highness," he cried, at the same time 
offering the bottle, which the prince did not hesitate to empty.

"Ha !" staggering to his feet. "Where are the men?"

Maurice explained the cause of their absence. The prince swore, 
and climbed with difficulty into the saddle.

"Thank God," he said, as they galloped away, "we shall be there 
first."

"Adieu, Madame!" Maurice cried, airily. He was free.

"To our next meeting, duchess!" The prince, too, was free, but 
he thirsted for a full revenge.

They had been on the way but a short time when Maurice lifted 
his arm.

"Look!"

The prince raised his head. It was dawn, yellow and cold and 
pure.

They fell into silence; sometimes Maurice caught himself 
counting the beat of the hoofs and the variation of sounds, as 
when they struck sand or slate, or crossed small wooden bridges. 
Here and there he saw peasants going into the fields to begin 
the long, long day of toil. The saddle on which he sat had been 
the property of a short man, for the stirrups were too high, and 
the prince's were too low. But neither desired to waste time to 
adjust them. And so they rode with dangling legs and bodies 
sunken in the saddles; mute, as if by agreement.

They had gone perhaps ten miles when they perceived a horse 
flying toward them, half a mile away. The rider was not yet 
visible. They felt no alarm, but instinctively they drew 
together. Nearer and nearer came the lonely horseman, and as the 
distance lessened into some hundred yards they discerned the 
flutter of a gown.

"A woman!" exclaimed Maurice. "And alone this time of morning!"

"Eh?" cried the prince; "and heading for the duchy? Let us wait."

They drew up to the side of the highway. The woman came 
fearlessly on, her animal's head down and his tail flaring out 
behind. On, on; abreast of them; as she flew past there was a 
vision of a pale, determined face, a blond head bared to the 
chill wind. She heeded not their challenge; it was a question 
whether or not she heard it. They stood watching her until she 
and her horse dwindled into a mere moving speck, finally to 
become lost altogether in a crook of the road.

"I should like to know what that means," said Maurice.

"It is very strange," the prince said, musingly. "I have seen 
that woman before. She is one of the dancers at the opera."

"Mayhap she has a lover on the other side."

"Mayhap. Let us be on. There's the sun, and we are a good 
thirteen miles away!" and the prince slapped the neck of his 
horse, which bounded forward.

This tiring pace they maintained until they mounted the hill 
from which they could see the glittering spires of the city, and 
the Werter See as it flashed back the sunlight.

"Bleiberg!" Maurice waved his hand.

"Thanks to you, that I look on it."

It was ten o'clock when they passed under the city gates.

"Monsieur, will you go with me to the palace?" asked the prince.

"If your Highness will excuse me," said Maurice; "no, I should 
be in the way; and besides I am dead for want of sleep."

"I shall never sleep," grumbled the prince, "till I have humbled 
that woman. And you? Have you no rankle in your heart? Have you 
no desire to witness that woman's humiliation?"

"Your Highness, I belong to a foreign country."

"No matter; be my aide. Come; I offer you a complete revenge for 
the treatment you have received at Madame's hands. Your 
government shall never know."

Maurice studied the mane of his horse. Suddenly he made a 
gesture. This gesture consigned to the four winds his diplomatic 
career. "I accept," he said. "You will find me at the 
Continental. I confess that I have no love for this woman. She 
has robbed me of no little conceit."

"To the palace, then; to the palace! And this hour to-morrow we, 
you and I, will drink to her Royal Highness at the Red Chateau. 
To the palace!"

Up the Strasse they raced, through the lower town to the upper, 
and down the broad asphalt to the palace gates. The prince 
rushed his horse to the very bars and shook them in his wild 
impatience.

"Ho! open, open!" he called.

Several cuirassiers lounged about. At the sight of these two 
hatless, bedraggled men storming the gates, they ran forward 
with drawn swords and angry cries. Lieutenant Scharfenstein was 
among them. At second glance he recognized Maurice, who hailed 
him.

"Open, Lieutenant," he cried; "it is his Highness, Prince 
Frederick!"

The bars came down, the gates swung in.

"Go and sleep," said the prince to Maurice; "I will send an 
orderly for you when the time comes." And with this he dashed up 
the driveway to the main entrance of the palace, leaped from his 
horse and disappeared.

Maurice wheeled and drove leisurely to the Continental, leaving 
the amazed cuirassiers gaping after him. He experienced that 
exuberance of spirits which always comes with a delightful day 
dream. He forgot his weariness, his bruises. To mingle directly 
in the affairs of kings and princes, to be a factor among 
factors who surround and uphold thrones, seemed so at variance 
with his republican learning that he was not sure that all this 
was not one long dream--Fitzgerald and his consols, the meeting 
with the princess, the adventures at Madame's chateau, the duel 
with Beauvais, the last night's flight with the prince across 
the mountains! Yes; he had fallen asleep somewhere and had been 
whisked away into a kind of fairyland. Every one was in trouble 
just now, as they always are in certain chapters of fairy tales, 
but all would end happily, and then--he would wake.

Meanwhile the prince entered the palace and was proceeding up 
the grand corridor, when a bared sword stayed his progress.

"Monsieur," said von Mitter, "you have lost your way. You can 
not enter here."

"I?" a haughty, threatening expression on his pale face. "Are 
you sure?"

Von Mitter fell back against the wall and all but lost hold of 
his saber. "Your Highness?" he gasped, overcome.

"Even so!" said the prince. "The archbishop! the Marshal! Lead 
me to them at once!"

Von Mitter was too much the soldier not to master his surprise 
at once. He saluted, clicked his heels and limped toward the 
throne room. He stopped at the threshold, saluted again, and, in 
a voice full of quavers, announced:

"His Highness Prince Frederick of Carnavia."

He stepped aside, and the prince pushed past him into the throne 
room. At this dramatic entrance there rose from the archbishop, 
the Marshal, the princess, the Carnavian ambassador, from all 
the court dignitaries, a cry of wonder and astonishment.

"His Highness!"

"Aye!" cried the prince, brokenly, for his joy at seeing the 
princess nigh overcame him. "I have been a prisoner of Madame's, 
who at this moment is marching on Bleiberg with an army four 
thousand strong!" And stumblingly he related his misadventures.

The Marshal did not wait until he had done, nor did the new 
Colonel of the cuirassiers; both rushed from the room. The 
archbishop frowned; while the princess and the court stared at 
the prince with varying emotions. Before the final word had 
passed his lips, he approached her Highness, fell on his knee 
and raised her hand to his lips. He noticed not how cold it was.

"Thank God, Mademoiselle," he said, "that once more I look into 
your eyes. And if one wedding day is gone--well, there is yet 
time for another!" He, rose, and proudly before them all he drew 
her toward him and kissed her cheek. It was his right; she was, 
the light of all his dreams, at once his bride-to-be and lady-
love. But in his joy and eagerness he did not see how pale she 
grew at the touch of his lips, nor how the lids of her eyes 
trembled and fell.

Next the prince recounted Maurice's adventures, how he became 
connected with those at the chateau, even Fitzgerald's fall from 
grace. The indignation and surprise which was accorded this 
recital was unbounded.

The brown eyes of the princess filled. In a moment she had 
traversed the space of ten years to a rare September noon, when 
a gray-haired old man had kissed her hand and praised her speech.
A young dog stood beside her, ready for a romp in the park. 
Across the path sat her father, who was smiling, and who would 
never smile again. How many times had her girlish fancy pictured 
the son of that old man! How many times had she dreamed of him--
aye, prayed for him! The room grew dark, and she pressed her 
hand over her heart. To her the future was empty indeed. There 
was nothing left but the vague perfume of the past, the faint 
incense of futile, childish dreams. To stand on the very 
threshold of life, and yet to see no joy beyond! She struggled 
against the sob which rose, and conquered it.

"To arms, Messieurs, to arms!" cried the prince, feverishly. "To 
arms!"

The archbishop stepped forward and took the prince's hand in his 
own.

"God wills all things," he said, sadly, "and perhaps he has 
willed that your Highness should come too late!" And that 
strange, habitual smile was gone--forever. No one could fathom 
the true significance of this peculiar speech.

"But "aux armes" was taken up, and spread throughout the city.




CHAPTER XXV


THE FORTUNES OF WAR

War! The whole city was in tumult. The guests were leaving the 
hotels, the timid were preparing to fly, and shopkeepers were 
putting up their blinds and hiding their valuables; the parks 
and cafes were deserted. The railway booking office was crowded, 
and a babel of tongues quarreled for precedence. The siege of 
Paris was but yesterday's news, and tourists did not propose to 
be walled in from the outer world. Some looked upon the scene as 
a comic opera; others saw the tragedy of men snarling at one 
another's throats.

Two hundred gendarmes patrolled the streets; for in war time the 
dregs of a city float to the surface. Above the foreign 
legations flags rose, offering protection to all those who 
possessed the right to claim it. Less than four thousand troops 
had marched from the city that day, but these were the flower of 
the army, consisting of two thousand foot, six cannon and twelve 
hundred horse. Europe has always depended largely on the cavalry,
which in the past has been a most formidable engine in warfare.

With gay plumes and banners, glittering helmets and flashing 
cuirasses, they had gone forth to meet Madame and drive her back 
across the range. They had made a brave picture, especially the 
royal cuirassiers, who numbered three hundred strong, and who 
were to fight not only for glory, but for bread. Fifty of them 
had been left behind to guard the palaces.

In the royal bedchamber the king lay, all unconscious of the 
fate impending. The brain had ceased to live; only a feeble 
pulse stirred irregularly. The state physician shook his head, 
and, from time to time, laid his fingers on the unfeeling wrist. 
To him it was a matter of a few hours.

But to the girl, whose face lay hidden in the counterpane, close 
to one of those senseless hands, to her it was a matter of a 
breaking heart, of eyes which could be no longer urged to tears, 
the wells having dried up. Dear God, she thought, how cruel it 
was! Her tried and trusted friend, the one playmate of her 
childhood, was silently slipping out of her life forever. Ah, 
what to her were crowns and kingdoms, aye, and even war? Her 
father dead, what mattered it who reigned? How she prayed that 
he might live! They would go away together, and live in peace 
and quiet, undisturbed by the storms of intrigue. . . . It was 
not to be; he was dying. She would be the wife of no man; her 
father, hovering in spirit above her, would read her heart and 
understand. Dead, he would ask no sacrifice of her. Henceforth 
only God would be her king, and she would worship him in some 
sacred convent.

The old valet, who had served his master from boyhood, stood in 
the anteroom and fumbled his lips, his faded eyes red with 
weeping. He was losing the only friend he had. Elsewhere the 
servants wandered about restlessly, waiting for news from the 
front, to learn if they, too, were to join in the mad flight 
from the city. Few servants love masters in adversity. Self-
interest is the keynote to their existences.

In the east wing three men were holding a whispered consultation.
The faces of two were pale and deep-lined; the face of the 
third expressed a mixture of condolence and triumph. These three 
gentlemen were the archbishop, the chancellor and the Austrian 
ambassador. History has not taken into account what passed 
between these three men, but subsequent events proved that it 
signified disaster to one who dreamed of conquest and of power.

Said the ambassador, rising: "After what has been said, his 
Imperial Majesty will, I can speak authoritatively, further 
discredit Walmoden; for I have this day received information 
from a reliable source which precludes any rehabilitation of 
that prince. My deepest sympathies are with her Highness; his 
Majesty highly honored her unfortunate father. Permit me to bid 
you good day, for you know that the matter under my hand needs 
my immediate attention."

When he had gone the prelate said: "My friend, our services to 
the kingdom are nearly over."

"We are lost!" replied the chancellor. "The king is happy, 
indeed."

"I find," said the prelate, "that we have been lost for ten 
years. Had this Englishman proved true, it would not have 
mattered; had Prince Frederick arrived in time, still it would 
not have mattered. But above all, I was determined that Madame 
the duchess should not triumph. The end was written ten years 
ago. How invincible is fate! How incontestible its decrees!"

In the lower town the students were preparing a riot, which was 
to take place that night. Old Stuler's was thronged. Stuler 
himself looked on indifferently, even listlessly. He had heard 
of Kopf's death.

It was half after five of the afternoon. Six miles beyond the 
Althofen bridge, in all thirteen miles from Bleiberg, a long, 
low cloud of dust hung over the king's highway. This cloud of 
dust was caused by the hurried, rhythmic pad-pad of human feet, 
the striking of hoofs and the wheels of cannon. It marked the 
progress of an army. To the great surprise of the Marshal, the 
prince and the staff, they had pushed thus far during the 
afternoon without seeing a sign of the enemy. Was Madame asleep? 
Was she so confident her projects were unknown that she had 
chosen night as the time of her attack? Night, indeed, when the 
strength of her forces would be a matter of conjecture to the 
assaulted, who at the suddenness of her approach would succumb 
to panic! The prince was jubilant and hopeful. He had no doubt 
that they would arrive at the pass just as Madame was issuing 
forth. This meant an easy victory, for once the guns covered the 
narrow pass, though Madame's army were ten times as strong, its 
defeat was certain. A small force might hold it in check for 
hours.

A squadron of cuirassiers had been sent forward to reconnoiter, 
and as yet none had returned with alarms. The road had many 
windings, and was billowed frequently with hills, and ran 
through small forests. Only the vast blue bulk of the mountains 
remained ever in view.

"We shall drink at the Red Chateau to-night," said the prince, 
gaily, to Maurice.

"That we shall," replied Maurice; "and the best in the cellars."

Only the Marshal said nothing; he knew what war was. In his 
youth he had served in Transylvania, and he was not minded to 
laugh and jest. Then, too, there was injustice on both sides. 
Poor devil! as his thoughts recurred to the king. Touched for 
the moment by the wings of ambition, which is at best a white 
vulture, he had usurped another's throne, and to this end! But 
he was less answerable than the archbishop, who had urged him.

Occasionally he glanced back at the native troops, the foot, the 
horse, the artillery, and scowled. From these his glance 
wandered to the cold, impassive face of General Kronau, who rode 
at his side, and he rubbed his nose. Kronau had been a favorite 
of Albrecht's . . . How would he act? In truth, the Marshal's 
thoughts were not altogether pleasant. Some of these men 
surrounding him, exchanging persiflage, might never witness 
another sunset. For, while the world would look upon this 
encounter as one looks upon a comedy, for some it would serve as 
tragedy. Often he lent his ear to the gay banter of the young 
American, and watched the careless smile on his face. What was 
he doing here? Why was he risking his life for no cause whatever,
an alien, in natural sympathy neither with the kingdom nor with 
the duchy? A sad, grim smile parted his lips.

"O, the urbanity of the young and the brave!" he murmured.

Maurice felt the old familiar exhilaration--the soldier's 
exhilaration--quicken the beat of his pulse. He did not ask 
himself why he was here; he knew why. A delightful flower had 
sprung up in his heart, and fate had nipped it. Whither this new 
adventure would lead him he cared not. From now on life for him 
must be renewed by continual change and excitement. Since no one 
depended on him, his life was his to dispose of as he willed. 
Friends? He laughed. He knew the world too well. He himself was 
his best friend, for he had always been true to himself.

He might be shot, but he had faced that possibility before. 
Besides, to-day's experience would be new to him. He had never 
witnessed a battle in the open, man to man, in bright, 
resplendent uniforms. A ragged, dusty troop of brown-skinned men 
in faded blue, with free and easy hats, irregular of formation, 
no glory, no brilliancy, skirmishing with outlawed white men and 
cunning Indians, that was the extent of his knowledge by 
experience. True, these self-same men in dingy blue fought with 
a daring such as few soldiers living possessed; but they lacked 
the ideal picturesqueness which made this army so attractive.

The sharp edges of his recent fatigue were not yet dulled, but 
his cuirass sat lightly upon him, the sound of the dangling 
saber at his side smote pleasantly his ear, and the black 
Mecklenberg under him was strong and active. To return to 
Madame's chateau in the guise of a conqueror was a most engaging 
thought. She had humbled his self-love, now to humble hers! He 
no longer bothered himself about Beauvais, whose case he had 
placed in the hands of the Austrian ambassador.

Gay and debonair he rode that late September afternoon. No man 
around him had so clear an eye nor so constant a vivacity. Since 
he had nothing but his life to lose, he had no fear. Let the 
theater be full of light while the play lasted, and let the 
curtain fall to a round of huzzas! For a few short hours ago he 
had kissed a woman's hand and had looked into her sad brown eyes.
"Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my 
prayers go with you." Was not that an amulet? His diplomatic 
career! He fell to whistling.

"Ah! que j'aime les militaires!"

More than once the prince felt the sting of envy in his heart at 
the sight of this embodiment of supreme nonchalance. It spoke of 
a healthy salt in the veins, a salt such as kings themselves can 
not always boast of. A foreigner, a republican? No matter; a 
gallant man.

"Monsieur," he said impulsively, "you shall always possess my 
friendship, once we are well out of this."

"Thanks, your Highness," replied Maurice, and laughing; "the 
after-thought is timely!"

The sun lay close to the western rim of hills; an opal sky 
encompassed the earth; the air was balmy.

"The French call this St. Martin's summer," said Maurice. "In my 
country we call it Indian summer--ah!" lifting in his stirrups.

The army was approaching a hill, when suddenly a whirlwind of 
dust rolled over the summit, and immediately a reconnoitering 
patrol came dashing into view, waving their sabers aloft. . . . 
The enemy was less than a mile away, and advancing rapidly.

To anticipate. Madame the duchess had indeed contemplated 
striking the blow at night. That morning, like the brave Amazon 
she was, she had pitched her tent in the midst of her army, to 
marshal and direct its forces. It was her intention to be among 
the first to enter Bleiberg; for she was a soldier's daughter, 
and could master the inherent fears of her sex.

That same morning a woman entered the lines and demanded an 
audience. What passed between her and Madame the duchess others 
never knew. She had also been apprised of the prisoners' escape, 
but, confident that they would not be able to make a crossing, 
she disdained pursuit. The prince had missed his wedding day; he 
was no longer of use to her. As to the American, he would become 
lost, and that would be the end of him.

But the Englishman. . . . He was conscience eternally barking at 
her heels. The memory of that kiss still rankled in her mind, 
and not an hour went by in which she did not chide herself for 
the folly. How to get rid of him perplexed her. Here he was, in 
the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, ready to go to any lengths 
at a sign from her. There was something in her heart which she 
had not yet analyzed. First of all, her crown; as to her heart, 
there was plenty of time in which to study that peculiar and 
unstable organ. The possibility of the prince's arriving in 
Bleiberg before her in no way disturbed her. Whenever her attack 
was made, failure would not attend it. She broke camp at two 
o'clock and took the road leisurely toward Bleiberg.

Thus, the two armies faced each other comparatively in the open. 
A battle hung in the air.

The king's forces came to an abrupt halt. Orderlies dashed to 
and fro. The artillery came rumbling and creaking to the front, 
wheeled, the guns unlimbered and ranged so as to enfilade the 
road. The infantry deployed to right and left while the cavalry 
swung into position on the flanks. All this was accomplished 
with the equanimity of dress parade. Maurice could not control 
his admiration. Madame, he thought, might win her crown, but at 
a pretty cost.

The Marshal and the staff posted themselves on the right breast 
of the hill, from whence, by the aid of binoculars, they could 
see the enemy. From time to time General Kronau nervously 
smoothed his beard, formed his lips into words, but did not 
utter them, and glanced slyly from the corner of his eye at the 
Marshal, who was intent on the enemy's approach. Maurice was 
trying with naked eye to pierce the forest and the rolling 
ground beyond, and waiting for the roar of the guns.

Orders had been issued for the gunners to get the range and 
commence firing; but as the gunners seemed over long in getting 
down to work, Maurice gazed around impatiently. The blood rushed 
into his heart. For this is what he saw: the infantry leaning 
indolently on their guns, their officers snipping the grasses 
with their swords; the cuirassiers hidden in the bulk of the 
native cavalry; artillerymen seated carelessly on the caissons, 
and the gunners smoking and leaning against the guns. All action 
was gone, as if by magic; nothing but a strange tableau remained!
Moreover, a troop of native cavalry, which, for no apparent 
reason, had not joined the main body, had closed in on the 
general staff. Appalled by a sudden thought, Maurice touched the 
prince, who lowered his glasses and turned his head. 
Bewilderment widened his eyes, and the flush on his cheeks died 
away. He, too, saw.

"Devil's name!" the Marshal burst forth, "why don't the 
blockheads shoot? The enemy--" He stopped, his chin fell, for, 
as he turned, a single glance explained all to him. The red on 
his face changed into a sickly purple, and the glasses slipped 
from his hands and broke into pieces on the stony ground.

"Marshal," began General Kronau, "I respect your age and valiant 
services. That is why we have come thirteen miles. You may keep 
your sword, and also Monsieur the prince. For the present you 
are prisoners."

For a moment the Marshal was stupefied. His secret fears had 
been realized. Suddenly a hoarse oath issued from his lips, he 
dragged his saber from the scabbard, raised it and made a 
terrible sweep at the General. But the stroke fell on a dozen 
intervening blades, and the Marshal's arms were held and forced 
to his sides.

"Kronau . . . you?" he roared. "Betrayed! You despicable coward 
and traitor! You--" But speech forsook him, and he would have 
fallen from the horse but for those who held his arms.

"Traitor?" echoed Kronau, coolly. "To what and to whom? I am 
serving my true and legitimate sovereign. I am also serving 
humanity, since this battle is to be bloodless. It is you who 
are the traitor. You swore allegiance to the duke, and that 
allegiance is the inheritance of the daughter. How have you kept 
your oath?"

But the Marshal was incapable of answer. One looking at him 
would have said that he was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy.

"I admit," went on the General, not wholly unembarrassed, "that 
the part I play is not an agreeable one to me, but it is 
preferable to the needless loss of human life. The duchess was 
to have entered Bleiberg at night, to save us this present 
dishonor, if you persist in calling it such. But his Highness, 
who is young, and Monseigneur the archbishop, who dreams of 
Richelieu, made it impossible. No harm is intended to any one."

The prince, white and shivering as if with ague, broke his sword 
on the pommel of the saddle and hurled the pieces at Kronau, who 
permitted them to strike him.

"God's witness," the prince cried furiously, "but your victory 
shall be short-lived. I have an army, trusty to the last sword, 
and you shall feel the length of its arm within forty-eight 
hours."

"Perhaps," said Kronau, shrugging.

"It is already on the way."

"Your Highness forgets that Carnavia belongs to the 
confederation, and that the king, your father, dare not send you 
troops without the consent of the emperor, which, believe me, 
will never be given;" and he urged his horse down the slope.

The army of the duchess had now gained the open. The advance was 
composed of cavalry, which came along the road with wings on 
either side, and with great dash and splendor.

A noisy cheer arose, to be faintly echoed by the oncoming 
avalanche of white horses and dazzling blue uniforms.

This was the incident upon which Madame the duchess relied.

With rage and chagrin in his heart, Maurice viewed the scene. 
The knell of the Osians had been struck. He gazed forlornly at 
the cuirassiers; they at least had come to sell their lives 
honestly for their bread. Presently the two armies came together;
all was confusion and cheers. Kronau approached the leader of 
the cavalry. . . . Maurice was greatly disturbed. He leaned 
toward the prince.

"Your Highness," he whispered, "I am going to make a dash for 
the road."

"Yes, yes!" replied the prince, intuitively. "My God, yes! Warn 
her to fly, so that she will not be compelled to witness this 
cursed woman's triumph. Save her that humiliation. Go, and God 
be with you, my friend! We are all dishonored. The Marshal looks 
as if he were dying."

The native troopers, in their eagerness to witness the meeting 
between Kronau and the former Colonel of the cuirassiers, had 
pushed forward. A dozen, however, had hemmed in the Marshal, the 
prince and Maurice. But these were standing in their stirrups. 
Maurice gradually brought his horse about so that presently he 
was facing north. Directly in front of him was an opening. He 
grasped his saber firmly and pressed the spurs. Quick as he was, 
two sabers barred his way, but he beat them aside, went 
diagonally down the hill, over the stone wall and into the road.

While he was maneuvering for this dash, one man had been eying 
him with satisfaction. As the black horse suddenly sank from 
view behind the hill, Beauvais, to the astonishment of Kronau, 
drew his revolver.

"There goes a man," he cried, "who must not escape. He is so 
valuable that I shall permit no one but myself to bring him back!"
And the splendid white animal under him bounded up the hill 
and down the other side.

Beauvais had a well-defined purpose in following alone. He was 
determined that one Maurice Carewe should not bother anyone 
hereafter; he knew too much.

The white horse and the black faded away in the blur of rising 
dust.




CHAPTER XXVI


A PAGE FROM TASSO

For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the 
coal black mane of his gallant Mecklenberg. Twice he glanced 
back to see who followed, but the volume of dust which rolled 
after him obscured all behind. He could hear the far-off hammer 
of hoofs, but this, mingling with the noise of his own horse, 
confused him as to the number of pursuers. He reasoned that he 
was well out of range, for there came no report of firearms. The 
road presently described a semi-circle, passing through a meager 
orchard. Once beyond this he turned again in the saddle.

"Only one; that is not so bad as it might be. It is one to one." 
But a second glance told him who this solitary pursuer was. "The 
devil!" he laughed--as one of Tasso's heroes might have laughed!-
-"The devil! how that man loves me!" He was confident that the 
white horse would never overtake the black.

On they flew, pursued and pursuer. At length Maurice bit his lip 
and frowned. The white horse was growing larger; the distance 
between was lessening, slowly but certainly.

"Good boy!" he said encouragingly to the Mecklenberg. "Good boy!"

Deserted farm houses swept past; hills rose and vanished, but 
still the white horse crept up, up, up. The distance ere another 
half mile had gone had diminished to four hundred yards; from 
four hundred it fell to three hundred, from three hundred to two 
hundred. The Mecklenburg was doing glorious work, but the 
marvelous stride of the animal in the rear was matchless. 
Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on his helmet 
spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later came 
the report. One, he counted; four more were to follow. Next a 
stream of fire gassed along his cheek, and something warm 
trickled down the side of his neck. Two, he counted, his face 
now pale and set. The third knocked his scabbard into the air.

Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and 
drew his own revolver. He understood. He was not to be taken 
prisoner. Beauvais intended to kill him offhand. Only the dead 
keep secrets. Maurice flung about and fired three consecutive 
times. The white horse reared, and the shako of his master fell 
into the dust, but there was no other result. As Maurice pressed 
the trigger for the fourth time the revolver was violently 
wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to be 
quivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.

"My God, what a shot!" he murmured. "I am lost!"

Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation 
somewhat like that caused by a sound blow in the middle of the 
back. Strange, but he felt no pain, neither was there an 
accompanying numbness. Then he remembered his cuirass, which was 
of steel an eighth of an inch thick. It had saved his life. The 
needles began to leave his right hand and arm, and he knew that 
he had received no injury other than a shock. He passed the 
saber back to his right hand. He had no difficulty in holding it.
Gradually his grip grew strong and steady.

Beauvais was now within twenty yards of Maurice. Had he been 
less eager and held his fire up to this point, Maurice had been 
a dead man. The white horse gained every moment. A dull fury 
grew into life in Maurice's heart. Instead of continuing the 
race, he brought the Mecklenberg to his haunches and wheeled. He 
made straight for Beauvais, who was surprised at this change of 
tactics. In the rush they passed each other and the steel hummed 
spitefully through space. Both wheeled again.

"Your life or mine!" snarled Maurice. His coolness, however, was 
proportionate to his rage. For the first time in his life the 
lust to kill seized him.

"It shall be yours, damn you!" replied Beauvais.

"The Austrian ambassador has your history; kill me or not, you 
are lost." Maurice made a sweep at his enemy's head and missed.

Beauvais replied in kind, and it flashed viciously off the point 
of Maurice's saber. He had only his life to lose, but it had 
suddenly become precious to him; Beauvais had not only his life, 
but all that made life worth living. His onslaught was terrible. 
Besides, he was fighting against odds; he wore no steel 
protector. Maurice wore his only a moment longer. A cut in the 
side severed the lacings, and the sagging of the cuirass greatly 
handicapped him. He pressed the spurs and dashed away, while 
Beauvais cursed him for a cowardly cur. Maurice, by this 
maneuver, gained sufficient time to rid himself of the 
cumbersome steel. What he lost in protection, he gained in 
lightness and freedom. Shortly Beauvais was at him again. The 
time for banter had passed; they fought grimly and silently. The 
end for one was death. Beauvais knew that if his antagonist 
escaped this time the life he longed for, the power and honor it 
promised, would never be his. On his side, Maurice was equally 
determined to live.

The horses plunged and snorted, reared and swayed and bit. 
Sometimes they carried their masters several yards apart, only 
to come smashing together again.

The sun was going down, and a clear, white light prevailed. Afar 
in the field a herd was grazing, but no one would call them to 
the sheds. Master and mistress had long since taken flight.

The duel went on. Maurice was growing tired. By and by he began 
to rely solely on the defense. When they were close, Beauvais 
played for the point; the moment the space widened he took to 
the edge. He saw what Maurice felt--the weakening, and he 
indulged in a cruel smile. They came close; he made as though to 
give the point. Maurice, thinking to anticipate, reached. Quick 
as light Beauvais raised his blade and brought it down with 
crushing force, standing the while in the stirrups. The blow 
missed Maurice's head by an inch, but it sank so deeply in his 
left shoulder that it splintered the collar bone and stopped 
within a hair of the great artery that runs underneath.

The world turned red, then black. When it grew light again 
Maurice beheld the dripping blade swinging aloft again. Suddenly 
the black horse snapped at the white, which veered. The stroke 
which would have split Maurice's skull in twain, fell on the 
rear of the saddle, and the blade was so firmly imbedded in the 
wooden molding that Beauvais could not withdraw it at once. 
Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yet Maurice saw his 
chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength at the brown 
throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's body 
stiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched 
wildly at the steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it.
A bloody foam gushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he 
swayed, and finally tumbled into the road--dead.

As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own 
there passed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still 
living, dwelt in a lonely convent, thousands of miles away.

Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness 
began to steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand 
was red, and the blood dripped from his fingers and made round 
black spots in the dust of the road. A circle of this blackness 
was widening about the head of the fallen man. Maurice watched 
it, fascinated. . . He was dead, and the fact that he was a 
prince did not matter.

It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into 
lead, and he vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a 
weight. He was sleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also 
must be dying. . . . No; he would not die there, beside this man.
He still gripped his saber. Indeed, his hand was as if soldered 
to the wire and leather windings on the hilt. Mollendorf had 
said that Beauvais was invincible. . . . Beauvais was dead. Was 
he, too, dying? . . . No; he would not die there. The 
Mecklenberg started forward at a walk; a spur had touched him.

"No!" Maurice cried, throwing off the drowsiness. "My God, I 
will not die here! . . . Go, boy!" The Mecklenberg set off, 
loping easily.

His recent enemy, the great white horse, stood motionless in the 
center of the road, and followed him with large, inquiring eyes. 
He turned and looked at the silent huddled mass in the dust at 
his feet, and whinneyed. But he did not move; a foot still 
remained in the stirrup.

Soon Maurice remembered an episode of his school days, when, in 
the spirit of precocious research, he had applied carbolic acid 
to his arm. It occurred to him that he was now being bathed in 
that burning fluid. He was recovering from the shock. With 
returning sense came the increase of pain, pain so tormenting 
and exquisite that sobs rose in his throat and choked him. 
Perspiration matted his hair; every breath he took was a knife 
thrust, and the rise and fall of the horse, gentle as it was, 
caused the earth to reel and careen heavenward.

Bleiberg; he was to reach Bleiberg. He repeated this thought 
over and over. Bleiberg, to warn her. Why should he go to 
Bleiberg to warn her? What was he doing here, he who loved life 
so well? What had led him into this? . . . There had been a 
battle, but neither army had been cognizant of it. He endeavored 
to move his injured arm, and found it bereft of locomotion. The 
tendons had been cut. And he could not loosen his grip on the 
saber which he held in his right hand. The bridle rein swung 
from side to side.

Rivulets of fire began to run up and down his side; the cords in 
his neck were stiffening. Still the blood went drip, drip, drip, 
into the dust. Would he reach Bleiberg, or would he die on the 
way? God! for a drink of water, cold water. He set his teeth in 
his lips to neutralize the pain in his arm and shoulder. His 
lips were numb, and the pressure of his teeth was as nothing. 
From one moment to the next he expected to drop from the saddle, 
but somehow he hung on; the spark of life was tenacious. The 
saber dangled on one side, the scabbard on the other. The blood, 
drying in places, drew the skin as tight as a drumhead.

On, on, on; up long inclines, down the steeps; he lost all track 
of time, and the darkness thickened and the stars stood out more 
clearly. . . . He could look back on a clean life; true, there 
were some small stains, but these were human. Strange fancies 
jostled one another; faces long forgot reappeared; scenes from 
boyhood rose before him. Home! He had none, save that which was 
the length and breadth of his native land. On, on, on; the low 
snuffle of the horse sometimes aroused him from the stupor.

"Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my 
prayers go with you!" . . . She had said that to him, and had 
given him her hand to kiss; a princess, one of the chosen and 
the few. To live long enough to see her again; a final service--
and adieu! . . . Ah, but it had been a good fight, a good fight. 
No fine phrases; nothing but the lust for blood; a life for a 
life; a game in which the winner was also like to lose. A gray 
patch in the white of the road attracted his attention--a bridge.

"Water!" he murmured.

Mottled with the silver of the stars, it ran along through the 
fields; a brook, shallow and narrow, but water. The perfume of 
the grasses was sweet; the horse sniffed joyously. He stopped of 
his own accord. Maurice had strength enough to dismount. The 
saber slid from his grasp. He staggered down to the water. In 
kneeling a faintness passed over him; he rolled into the brook 
and lay there until the water, almost clogging his throat and 
nostrils, revived him. He crawled to his knees, coughing and 
choking. The contact of the cold with the burning wound caused a 
delightful sensation.

"Water!" he said, and splashed it in his face.

The horse had come down from the road. He had not waited for an 
invitation. He drank thirstily at the side of his master. The 
water gurgled in his long, black throat.

"Good boy!" Maurice called, and dashed water against his 
shoulder. "Good boy!" he remembered that the horse in biting the 
white one had saved his life.

Each handful of the cold liquid caused him to gasp; but soon the 
fever and fire died out, leaving only the duller pain. When he 
rose from his knees, however, he found that the world had not 
yet ceased its wild reeling. He stooped to regain his saber, and 
fell into the dust; though to him it was not he who fell, but 
the earth which rose. He struggled to his feet, leaned panting 
on his saber, and tried to steady himself. He laughed 
hysterically. He had dismounted, but he knew that he could never 
climb to the back of the horse; and Bleiberg might yet be miles 
away. To walk the distance; was it possible? To reach Bleiberg 
before Madame. . . . Madame the duchess and her army! He laughed 
again, but there was a wild strain in his laughter. Ah, God! 
what a farce it was! One man dead and another dying; the 
beginning and the end of the war. The comic opera! La Grande 
Duchesse! And the fool of an Englishman was playing Fritz! He 
started down the road, his body slouched forward, the saber 
trailing in the dust. . . .

"Voici le sabre de mon pere!"

The hand of madness had touched him. The Mecklenberg followed at 
his heels as a dog would have followed his master.

Less than a mile away a yellow haze wavered in the sky. It was 
the reflection of the city lights.

Maurice passed under the town gates, the wild song on his lips, 
his eyes bloodshot, his hair dank about his brow, conscious of 
nothing but the mad, rollicking rhythm. Nobody molested him; 
those he met gave him the full width of the road. A strange 
picture they presented, the man and the troop horse. Some one 
recognized the trappings of the horse; half an hour later it was 
known throughout the city that the king's army had been defeated 
and that Madame was approaching. Students began their 
depredations. They built bonfires. They raided the office of the 
official paper, and destroyed the presses and type. Later they 
marched around the Hohenstaufenplatz, yelling and singing.

Once a gendarme tried to stop Maurice and inquire into his 
business. The inquisition was abruptly ended by a cut from the 
madman's sword. The gendarme took to his legs. Maurice continued,
and the Mecklenberg tramped on after him. Into the Konigstrasse 
they turned. At this time, before the news was known, the street 
was deserted. Up the center of it the man went, his saber 
scraping along the asphalt, the horse always following.



Voici le sabre de mon pere! Tu vas le mettre a ton cote! Apres 
la victoire, j'espere Te revoir en bonne sante. . . . .

The street lamps swayed; sometimes a dozen revolved on one post, 
and Maurice would stop long enough to laugh. How easy it was to 
walk! All he had to do was to lift a foot, and the pavement 
would rise to meet it. The moon, standing high behind him, cast 
a long, weird shadow, and he staggered after it and cut at it 
with the saber. It was only when he saw the lights of the royal 
palace and the great globes on the gate posts that sanity 
returned. This sanity was of short duration.

"To the palace!" he cried; "to the palace! To warn her!" And he 
stumbled against the gates, still calling, "To the palace! To 
the palace!"

The cuirassiers who had been left behind to protect the inmates 
of the palace, were first aroused by the yelling and singing of 
the students. They rushed out of the guard room and came running 
to the gates, which they opened. The body of a man rolled inside.
They stopped and examined him; the uniform was theirs. The face 
they looked into was that of the handsome young foreigner who, 
that day, had gone forth from the city, a gay and gallant figure,
who sat his horse so well that he earned their admiration. What 
could this mean? And where were the others? Had there been a 
desperate battle?

"Run back to the guard room, one of you, and fetch some brandy. 
He lives." And Lieutenant Scharfenstein took his hand from the 
insensible man's heart. Pulsation was there, but weak and 
intermittent. "Sergeant, take ten men and clear the square. If 
they refuse to leave, kill! Madame is not yet queen by any means."

The men scattered. One soon returned with the brandy. 
Scharfenstein moistened the wounded man's lips and placed his 
palm under the nose. Shortly Maurice opened his eyes, his half-
delirious eyes.

"To the palace!" he said, "to the palace--Ah!" He saw the faces 
staring down at him. He struggled. Instinctively they all stood 
back. What seemed incredible to them, he got to his knees, from 
his knees to his feet, and propped himself against a gate post. 
"Your life or mine!" he cried. "Come on; a man can die but once!"
He lunged, and again they retreated. He laughed. "It was a 
good fight!" He reeled off toward the palace steps. They did not 
hinder him, but they followed, expecting each moment to see him 
fall. But, he fell not. One by one he mounted the steps, 
steadying himself with the saber. He gained the landing, once 
more steadied himself, and vanished into the palace.

"He is out of his head!" cried Scharfenstein, rushing up the 
steps. "God knows what has happened!"

He was in time to see Maurice lurch into the arms of Captain von 
Mitter, who had barred the way to the private apartments.

"Carewe! . . . What has happened? God's name, you are soaked in 
blood!" Von Mitter held Maurice at arm's length. "A battle?"

"Aye, a battle; one man is dead and another soon will be!" A 
transient lucidity beamed in Maurice's eyes. "We were betrayed 
by the native troops; they ran to meet Madame. . . . Marshal 
Kampf, Prince Frederick, and the cuirassiers are prisoners. . . .
I escaped. Beauvais, gave chase. . . . Wanted to kill me. . . .
He gave me this. I ran him through the throat. . . . Knew him 
in South America. . . . He's dead! Inform the archbishop and her 
Highness that Madame is nearing the city. The king--"

"Hush!" said von Mitter, with a finger on his lip; "hush! The 
king died at six o'clock. God rest his soul!" He crossed himself.
"A disgraceful day! Curse the scheming woman, could she not let 
us bury him in peace? Prince Frederick's father refused to send 
us aid."

"I am dying," said Maurice with a sob. "Let me lie down 
somewhere; if I fall I am a dead man." After a pause: "Take me 
into the throne room. I shall last till Madame comes. Let her 
find me there. . . . The brandy!"

Scharfenstein held the flask to the sufferer's lips.

"The throne room?" repeated von Mitter, surprised at this 
strange request. "Well, why not? For what is a throne when there 
is no king to sit on it? You will not die, my friend, though the 
cut is a nasty one. What is an arm? Life is worth a thousand of 
them! Quick! help me with him, Max!" for Maurice was reaching 
blindly toward him.

The three troopers who had followed Scharfenstein came up, and 
the five of them managed to carry Maurice into the throne room, 
and deposit him on the cushions at the foot of the dais. There 
they left him.

"Bad!" said von Mitter, as he came limping out into the corridor.
"And he made such a brave show when he left here this afternoon.
I have grown to love the fellow. A gallant man. I knew that the 
native troops were up to something. So did the Colonel. Ach! I 
would give a year of my life to have seen him and Beauvais. To 
kill Beauvais, the best saber in the kingdom--it must have been 
a fight worthy of the legends. A bad day! They will laugh at us. 
But, patience, the archbishop has something to say before the 
curtain falls. Poor young man! He will lose his arm, if not his 
life."

"But how comes he into all this?" asked Scharfenstein, 
perplexedly.

"It is not for me or you to question, Max," said von Mitter, 
looking down. He had his own opinion, but he was not minded to 
disclose it.

"What are you going to do?"

"Perform my duty until the end," sourly. "Go you and help 
against the students, who have not manliness enough even to 
respect the dead. The cowardly servants are all gone; save the 
king's valet. There are only seven of us in all. I will seek the 
king's physician; the dead are dead, so let us concern ourselves 
with the living;" and he limped off toward the private 
apartments.

Scharfenstein hurried away to the square.

In the royal bedchamber a girl murmured over a cold hand. "God 
pity me; I am all, all alone!"

The archbishop was kneeling at the foot of the bed. In his heart 
was the bitterness of loss and defeat. His dreams of greatness 
for this clay! The worldly pomp which was to have attended it! 
Life was but a warm breath on the mirror of eternity; for one 
the mirror was clear again.

The square soon grew quiet; the students and the cuirassiers had 
met for the last time. In the throne room shadows and silence 
prevailed. Maurice lay upon the cushions, the hilt of the saber 
still in his hand. Consciousness had returned, a clear, 
penetrating consciousness. At the foot of the throne, he thought,
and, mayhap, close to one not visible to the human eye! What a 
checkerboard he had moved upon, and now the checkmate! So long 
as the pain did not diminish, he was content; a sudden ease was 
what he dreaded. Life was struggling to retain its hold. He did 
not wish to die; he was young; there were long years to come; 
the world was beautiful, and to love was the glory over it all. 
He wondered if Beauvais still lay in the road where he had left 
him. Again he could see that red saber swinging high; and he 
shivered.

Half an hour passed, then came the distant murmur of voices, 
which expanded into tumult. The victorious army, the brave and 
gallant army, had entered the city, and was streaming toward the 
palaces. Huzzas rose amid the blaring of bugles. The timorous 
came forth and added to the noise. The conquerors trooped into 
the palace, and Madame the duchess looked with shining eyes at 
the throne of her forefathers.




CHAPTER XXVII


WORMWOOD AND LEES

Madame, like a statue of expectancy, riveted her gaze on the 
throne. Hers at last! Her dreams were realized. She was no 
longer a duchess by patent; she was a queen by right of 
inheritance; she was now to be a power among the great. The 
kingdom of her forefathers was hers. She had reached the goal 
without bloodshed; she had been patient, and this was her reward.
The blaze of her ambition dimmed all other stars. Her bosom 
heaved, triumph flashed in her beautiful eyes, and a smile 
parted her lips. Her first thought had been to establish 
headquarters in the parlors of the Continental Hotel, and from 
there to summon the archbishop, as a conqueror summons the chief 
of the vanquished. But no; she could not wait; above all things 
she desired the satisfaction of the eye. The throne of her 
forefathers!

"Mine!" she murmured.

Over her shoulders peered eager faces, in which greed and 
pleasure and impassibility were written. One face, however, had 
on it the dull red of shame. Not until now did the full force of 
his intended dishonesty come home to the Englishman; not until 
now did he realize the complete degradation to which his uniform 
had lowered him. His had been the hand to stay this misfortune, 
and he had not lifted it. This king had been his father's friend;
and he had taken up arms against him. O, he had begun life 
badly; he was making the end still more dismal. Would this woman 
ever be his? Her promises were not worth the air that had 
carried them to his ear. He, the consort of a queen? A cold 
sweat dampened his forehead. How he loved her! And that kiss. . . .
Queen or not, he would not be her dupe, his would not be a 
tame surrender.

From the Platz and the Park, where the two armies had bivouacked,
came an intermittent cheering. The flames of bonfires were 
reflected on the windows, throwing out in dull, yellow relief 
the faces of Madame and her staff.

Between the private apartments of the king and the throne room 
was a wide sliding door. Suddenly this opened and closed. With 
his back against it, a pistol in one hand and a saber in the 
other, stood Captain von Mitter, his face cold and resolute. All 
eyes were instantly directed toward him.

"Captain," said Madame, imperiously, "summon to me Monseigneur 
the archbishop!"

Her command fell on ears of stone. Von Mitter made no sign that 
he heard her.

"Take care, Monsieur," she warned; "I am mistress here. If you 
will not obey me, my officers will."

"Madame, I acknowledge no mistress save the daughter of the king.
No one shall pass this door to announce your presence to 
Monseigneur."

This reply was greeted with sundry noises, such as sabers coming 
from scabbards, clicking of pistol locks, and the moving of feet.
Madame put out her hand suggestively, and the noise ceased. Von 
Mitter smiled disdainfully, but did not stir.

"I warn you, Madame," he said, "that this is war. I accept all 
the responsibilities of my position. I know nothing of any 
surrender or victory. To me you are simply an enemy. I will kill 
any one who attempts to pass. I should be pleased if General 
Kronau would make the first step to question my sincerity."

Kronau's fingers twitched around his revolver, but Madame 
touched his arm. She could read faces. The young Captain was in 
earnest. She would temporize.

"Captain, all here are prisoners of war," she said. "Do not 
forget that soon there will be benefits for those who serve me."

He laughed rudely. "I ask no benefits from your hands, Madame. I 
would rather stand on the corner and beg." He sent an insolent, 
contemptuous glance at Kronau, who could not support it. "And 
now that you have gratified your curiosity, I beg you to 
withdraw to the street. To-night this palace is a tomb, and woe 
to those who commit sacrilege."

"The king?" she said, struck by a thought which caused a red 
spot to appear on each cheek.

"Is dead. Go and leave us in peace."

The wine which had tasted so sweet was full of lees, and the cup 
wormwood. Madame looked down, while her officers moved uneasily 
and glanced over their shoulders. Kronau brushed his forehead, 
to find it wet. Madame regretted the surrendering to the impulse.
Her haste to triumph was lacking both in dignity and judgment. 
She had given the king so little place in her thoughts that the 
shock of his death confused her. And there was something in the 
calm, fearless contempt of the young soldier which embarrassed her.

"In that case, Captain," she said, her voice uncertain and 
constrained, "bid Monseigneur to wait on me at the Continental."

"Whenever that becomes convenient, Madame, Monseigneur will 
certainly confer with you and your rascally pack of officers." 
He longed for some one to spring at him; he longed to strike a 
blow in earnest.

As he leaned against the door he felt it move. He stepped aside. 
The door rolled back, and her Royal Highness, the archbishop and 
the chancellor passed in. The princess's eyes were like dim 
stars, but her fine nostrils palpitated, and her mouth was rigid 
in disdain. The chancellor looked haggard and dispirited, and he 
eyed all with the listlessness of a man who has given up hope. 
The prelate's face was as finely drawn as an ancient cameo, and 
as immobile. He gazed at Madame with one of those looks which 
penetrate like acid; and, brave as she was, she found it 
insupportable. There was a tableau of short duration.

"Madame," said her Royal Highness, with a noble scorn, "what 
would you say if one desecrated your father's tomb while you 
were kneeling beside it? What would you say? In yonder room my 
father lies dead, and your presence here, in whatever role, is 
an insult. Are you, indeed, a woman? Have you no respect for 
death and sorrow? Was the bauble so precious to your sight that 
you could not wait till the last rites were paid to the dead? Is 
your heart of stone, your mind devoid of pity and of conscience? 
Are you lacking in magnanimity, which is the disposition of 
great souls? Ah, Madame, you will never be great, for you have 
stooped to treachery and deceit. You, a princess! You have 
purchased with glittering promises that which in time would have 
been given to you. And you will not fulfill these promises, for 
honesty has no part in your affair. Shame on you, Madame. By 
dishonorable means you have gained this room. By dishonorable 
means you destroyed all those props on which my father leaned. 
You knew that he had not long to live. Had you come to me as a 
woman; had you opened your heart to me and confided your desires--
Ah, Madame, how gladly would I have listened. Whatever it 
signifies to you, this throne is nothing to me. Had you come 
then--but, no! you must come to demand your rights when I am 
defenseless. You must come with a sword when there is none to 
defend. Is it possible that in our veins there runs a kindred 
blood? And yet, Madame, I forgive you. Rule here, if you will; 
but remember, between you and your crown there will always be 
the shadow of disgrace. Monsieur," turning toward Fitzgerald, 
whose shame was so great that it engulfed him, "your father and 
mine were friends--I forgive you. Now, Madame, I pray you, go, 
and leave me with my dead."

The girlhood of Princess Alexia was gone forever.

To Madame this rebuke was like hot iron on the flesh. It left 
her without answer. Her proud spirit writhed. Before those 
innocent eyes her soul lay bare, offering to the gaze an 
ineffaceable scar. For the first time she saw her schemes in 
their true light. Had any served her unselfishly? Aye, there was 
one. And strangely enough, the first thought which formed in her 
mind when chaos was passed, was of him.

How would this rebuke affect her in his eyes? What was he to her 
that she cared for his respect, his opinion, good or bad? What 
was the meaning of the secret dread? How she hated him for his 
honesty to her; for now perforce she must look up to him. She 
had stepped down from the pinnacle of her pride to which she 
might never again ascend. He had kissed her. How she hated him! 
And yet . . . Ah, the wine was flat, tinctured with the 
bitterness of gall, and her own greed had forced the cup to her 
lips. She could not remain silent before this girl; she must 
reply; her shame was too deep to resolve itself into silence.

"Mademoiselle," she said, "I beg of you to accept my sympathies; 
but the fortunes of war--"

"Ah, Madame," interrupted the prelate, lifting his white, 
attenuated hand, "we will discuss the fortunes of war--later."

Madame choked back the sudden gust of rage. She glanced covertly 
at the Englishman. But he, with wide-astonished eyes, was 
staring at the foot of the throne, from which gradually rose a 
terrible figure, covered with blood and caked with drying clay. 
The figure leaned heavily on the hilt of a saber, and swayed 
unsteadily. He drew all eyes.

"Ha!" he said, with a prolonged, sardonic intonation, "is that 
you, Madame the duchess? You are talking of war? What! and you, 
my lord the Englishman? Ha! and war? Look at me, Madame; I have 
been in a battle, the only one fought to-day. Look at me! Here 
is the mark of that friend who watched over your interests. But 
where is he? Eh? Where? Did you pick him up on the way? . . . . 
He is dead. For all that he was a rascal, he died like a man. . .
 . . as presently I shall die! Princes and kings and thrones; 
the one die and the other crumble, but truth lives on. And you, 
Madame, have learned the truth. Shame on your mean and little 
souls! There was only one honest man among you, and you 
dishonored him. The Marshal . . . I do not see him. An honest 
man dies but once, but a traitor dies a thousand deaths. Kronau .
 . . . is that your name? It was an honest one once. And the 
paltry ends you gain! . . . . The grand duchess of Gerolstein ! .
 . . . What a comic opera! Not even music to go by! Eh, you,--
you Englishman, has Madame made you a Lieutenant?--a Captain?--a 
General? What a farce! Nobles, you? I laugh at you all for a 
pack of thieves, who are not content with the purse, but must 
add honor to the bag. A man is what he makes himself. Medals and 
clothes, medals and clothes; that is the sum of your nobility!" 
He laughed, but the laughter choked in his throat, and he 
staggered a few paces away from the throne.

"Seize him!" cried Madame.

When the men sprang forward to execute this command, Fitzgerald 
barred the way.

"No," he said doggedly; "you shall not touch him."

"Stand aside, Monsieur," said Madame, determined to vent her 
rage on some one.

"Madame," said von Mitter, "I will shoot down the first man who 
lays a hand on Monsieur Carewe."

The princess, her heart beating wildly at the sudden knowledge 
that lay written on the inner vision, a faintness stealing away 
her sight, leaned back against the prelate.

"He is dying," she whispered; "he is dying for me!"

Maurice was now in the grasp of the final delirium. "Come on!" 
he cried; "come on! I will show you how a brave man can die. 
Come on, Messieurs Medals and Clothes! Aye, who will go out with 
me?" He raised the saber, and it caught the flickering light as 
it trailed a circle above his head. He stumbled toward them, 
sweeping the air with the blade. Suddenly there came a change. 
He stopped. The wild expression faded from his face; a surprised 
look came instead. The saber slipped from his fingers and 
clanged on the floor. He turned and looked at the princess, and 
that glance conveyed to her the burden of his love. 
"Mademoiselle . . . . " His knees doubled, he sank, rolled face 
downward, and a dark stain appeared and widened on the marble 
floor.

"Go, Madame," said the prelate. "This palace is indeed a tomb." 
He felt the princess grow limp on his arm. "Go."

"Maurice!" cried Fitzgerald, springing to the side of the fallen 
man. "My God! Maurice!"




CHAPTER XXVIII


INTO THE HANDS OF AUSTRIA

Madame, surrounded by her staff and courtiers, sat in the main 
salon of the Continental Hotel, waiting for the archbishop. The 
false, self-seeking ministers of Leopold's reign crowded around 
her to pay their respects, to compliment and to flatter her. 
Already they saw a brilliant court; already they were 
speculating on their appointments. Offices were plenty; new 
embassies were to be created, old embassies to be filled anew.

Madame listened to all coldly. There was a canker in her heart, 
and no one who saw that calm, beautiful face of hers dreamed how 
deeply the canker was eating. There were two men who held aloof 
from compliments and flattery. On the face of one rested a moody 
scowl; on the other, agony and remorse. These two men were 
Colonel Mollendorf and Lord Fitzgerald. The same thought 
occupied each mind; the scene in the throne room.

Presently an orderly announced: "Monseigneur the archbishop."

Madame arose, and all looked expectantly, toward the door.

The old prelate entered, his head high and his step firm. He 
appeared to see no one but Madame. But this time she met his 
glance without a tremor.

"Monseigneur," she began, "I have come into my own at last. But 
for you and your ambitious schemes, all this would not have come 
to pass. You robbed my father of his throne and set your puppet 
there instead. By trickery my father was robbed of his lawful 
inheritance. By trickery I was compelled to regain it. However, 
I do not wish to make an enemy of you, Monseigneur. I have here 
two letters. They come from Rome. In one is your recall, in the 
other a cardinal's hat. Which do you prefer?"

"Surely not the cardinal's hat," said the prelate. "Listen to me,
Madame, for I have something to say to you which will cause you 
some reflection. If I had any ambitions, they are gone; if I had 
any dreams, they have vanished. Madame, some twenty years ago 
your duchy was created. It was not done to please Albrecht's 
younger brother, the duke, your father. Albrecht was childless. 
When your father was given the duchy it was done to exclude 
forever the house of Auersperg from reigning on this throne. You 
say that you were tricked; well, and so was I. Unhappily I 
touched the deeper current too late.

"This poor king, who lies silent in the palace, was not my 
puppet. I wished to make him great, and bask in his greatness. 
But in that I failed; because Leopold was a poet and a 
philosopher, and the greatness of earthly things did not concern 
him. Leopold and I were dupes of Austria, as you are at this 
moment, Madame. So long as Leopold reigned peacefully he was not 
to be disturbed. Had you shown patience and resignation, 
doubtless to-day you would be a queen. You will never be more 
than a duchess.

"Madame, you have done exactly as Austria intended you should. 
There is no longer any kingdom." There was a subdued triumph in 
his eyes. "To you," with a gesture toward the courtiers and 
office-seekers, "to you I shall say, your own blind self-
interest has destroyed you. Madame, you are bearing arms not 
against this kingdom, but against Austria, since from to-day 
this land becomes the property of the imperial crown. If you 
struggle, it will be futilely. For, by this move of yours, 
Austria will declare that this kingdom is a menace to the 
tranquility of the confederation. Madame, there is no corner-
stone to your edifice. This is what I wished to say to you. I 
have done. Permit me to withdraw."

For a moment his auditors were spellbound; then all the emotions 
of the mind and heart portrayed themselves on the circle of 
faces. Madame's face alone was inscrutable.

"His Excellency, the Austrian ambassador!" announced the orderly.

The archbishop bowed and left the apartment.

"Your Highness," began the Austrian, "his Imperial Majesty 
commands your immediate evacuation of Bleiberg, and that you 
delay not your departure to the frontier. This kingdom is a 
crown land. It shall remain so by the consent of the 
confederation. If you refuse to obey this injunction, an army 
will enforce the order. Believe me, Madame, this office is 
distasteful to me, but it was not avoidable. What disposition am 
I to submit to his Majesty?"

"Monsieur," she said, "I am without choice in the matter. To pit 
my forces against the emperor's would be neither politic nor 
sensible. I submit." There was not a sign of any emotion, no 
hint of the terrible wrath which lay below the surface of those 
politely modulated tones. But it seemed to her as she stood 
there, the object of all eyes, that some part of her soul had 
died. Her pride surmounted the humiliation, the pride of a woman 
and a princess. She would show no weakness to the world.

"Then, Madame," said the ambassador, suppressing the admiration 
in his eyes at this evidence of royal nonchalance, "I shall 
inform his Majesty at once."

When he had gone, Madame turned coldly to her stricken followers.
"Messieurs, the fortunes of war are not on our side. I thank 
you for your services. Now leave me; I wish to be alone."

One by one they filed out into the corridors. The orderly was 
the last to leave, and he closed the door behind him. Madame 
surveyed the room. All the curtains were drawn. She was alone. 
She stood idly fingering the papers which lay scattered on the 
table. Suddenly she lifted her hands above her head and clenched 
them in a burst of silent rage. A dupe! doubly a dupe! To-morrow 
the whole world would laugh at her, and she was without means of 
wreaking vengeance. Presently the woman rose above the princess. 
She sat down, laid her face on her arms and wept.

Fitzgerald stepped from behind one of the curtains. He had taken 
refuge there during the archbishop's speech. He had not the 
strength to witness the final humiliation of the woman he loved. 
He was gazing out of the window at the troops in the Platz when 
the door closed.

Madame heard the rustle of the curtain and looked up. She sprang 
to her feet, her eyes blazing.

"You?" she cried. "You? You have dared to hide that you might 
witness my weakness and my tears? You. . . ."

"Madame!"

"Go! I hate you!"

"Ah, Madame, we always hate those whom we have wronged. Do not 
forget that I love you, with a love that passes convention."

"Monsieur, I am yet a princess. Did you not hear me bid you go?"

"Why?" in a voice singularly free from agitation. "Because I am 
the only man who has served you unselfishly? Is that the reason, 
Madame? You have laughed at me. I love you. You have broken me. 
I love you. I can never look an honest man in the face again. I 
love you. Though the shade of my father should rise to accuse me,
still would I say that I love you. Madame, will you find 
another love like mine, the first love of a man who will know no 
second? Forgive me if I rejoice in your despair, for your 
despair is my hope. As a queen you would be too far away; but in 
your misfortune you come so near! Madame, I shall follow you 
wherever you go to tell you that I love you. You will never be 
able to shut your ears to my voice; far or near, you will always 
hear me saying that I love you. Ambition soars but a little way; 
love has no fetters. Madame, your lips were given to me. Can you 
forget that?"

"Monsieur, what do you wish?" subdued by the fervor of his tones.

"You! nothing in the world but you."

"Princesses such as I am do not wed for love. What! you take 
advantage of my misfortune, the shattering of my dreams, to 
force your love upon me?"

"Madame," the pride of his race lighting his eyes, "confess to 
me that you did not win my love to play with it. If my heart was 
necessary to your happiness, which lay in these shattered dreams,
tell me, and I will go. My love is so great that it does not 
lack generosity."

For reply she sorted the papers and extended a blood-stained 
packet toward him. "Here, Monsieur, are your consols." But the 
moment his hand touched them, she made as though to take them 
back. On the top of the packet was the letter she had written to 
him, and on which he had written his scornful reply to her. She 
paled as she saw him unfold it.

"So, Madame, my love was a pastime?" He came close to her, and 
his look was like an invisible hand bearing down on her. "Madame,
I will go."

"No, no!" she cried, yielding to the impulse which suddenly laid 
hold of her. "Not you! You shall not misjudge me. No, not you! 
Those consols were given to me by the woman of your guide, Kopf, 
who found them no one knows how. They were given to me this 
morning. That letter. . . . . I did not intend that you should 
see it. No, Monsieur; you shall not misjudge the woman, however 
you judge the princess. Forgive me, it was not the woman who 
sought your love; it was the princess who had need of it.

"I thought it would be but a passing fancy. I did not dream of 
this end. To-morrow I shall be laughed at, and I cannot defend 
myself as a man can. I must submit; I must smile and cover my 
chagrin. O, Monsieur, do not speak to me of love; there is 
nothing in my heart but rage and bitterness. To stoop as I have 
stooped, and in vain! I am defeated; I must remain passive; like 
a whipped child I am driven away. Talk not of love to me. I am 
without illusion." She fell to weeping, and to him she was 
lovelier in her tears than ever in her smiles. For would she 
have shown this weakness to any but himself, and was it not a 
sign that he was not wholly indifferent to her?

"Madame, what is it?" he cried, on his knees before her. "What 
is it? Do you wish a crown? Find me a kingdom, and I will buy it 
for you. Be mine, and woe to those who dare to laugh! Ah, could 
I but convince you that love is above crowns and kingdoms, the 
only glimpse we have on earth of Paradise. There is no boundary 
to the dreams; no horizons; a vast, beautiful wilderness, and 
you and I together. There are no storms, no clouds. Ambition, 
the god of schemes, finds no entrance. Ah, how I love you! Your 
face is ever before me, waking or sleeping. All thoughts are 
merged into one, and that is of you. Self has dropped out of my 
existence. Forget that you are a princess; remember only that 
you are a woman, and that I love you."

Love has the key to eloquence. Madame forgot her vanished dreams;
the bitterness in her heart subsided. That mysterious, 
indefinable thrill, which every woman experiences when a 
boundless love is laid at her feet, passed through her, leaving 
her sensible to a delicious languor. This man was strong in 
himself, yet weak before her, and from his weakness she gained a 
visible strength. Convention was nothing to him; that she was of 
royal blood was still less. What other man would have dared her 
wrath as he had done?

Nobility, she thought, was based on the observance of certain 
laws. Around the central star were lesser stars, from which the 
central star drew its radiance. Whenever one of these stars 
deviates from its orbit, the glory of the central star is 
diminished. To accept the love of the Englishman would be a blow 
to the pride of Austria. She smiled.

"Monsieur," she said, in a hesitating voice, "Monsieur, I am 
indeed a woman. You ask me if I can forget that I offered you my 
lips? No. Nor do I wish to. Why did I permit you to kiss me? I 
do not know. I could not analyze the impulse if I tried. 
Monsieur, I am a woman who demands much from those who serve her.
I am capricious; my moods vary; I am unfamiliar with sentiment; 
I hate oftener than I love. Listen. There is a canker in my 
heart, made there by vanity. When it heals--well--mayhap you 
will find the woman you desire. Mind you, I make no promises. 
Follow me, if you will, but have patience; love me if you must, 
but in silence;" and with a gesture which was not without a 
certain fondness, she laid her hand upon his head.




CHAPTER XXIX


INTO STILL WATERS AND SILENCE

Into the princess's own chamber they carried Maurice, and laid 
him on the white bed. Thus would she have it. No young man had 
ever before entered that sacred chapel of her maiden dreams. 
Beside the bed was a small prie-dieu; and she knelt upon the 
cushion and rested her brow against the crucifix. The archbishop 
covered his eyes, and the state physician bent his head. 
Chastity and innocence at the feet of God; yet, not even these 
can hold back the fleeting breath of life. She asked God to 
forgive her the bitterness in her heart; she prayed for strength 
to repel the weakness in her limbs. Presently she rose, an 
angelic sweetness on her face. She looked down at Maurice; there 
was no sign of life, save in the fitful drawing in of the nether 
lip. She dampened a cloth and wiped the sweat of agony from the 
marble brow.

"O, if only he might live!" she cried. "And he will not?"

"No, your Highness," said the physician. "He has perhaps an hour.
Extraordinary vitality alone is the cause of his living so long.
He has lost nearly all the blood in his body. It was a 
frightful wound. He is dying, but he may return to consciousness 
before the end.

The archbishop, with somber eyes, contemplated the pale, 
handsome face, which lay motionless against the pillow. His 
thoughts flew back to his own youth, to the long years which had 
filled the gap between. Friends had come and gone, loved ones 
vanished; and still he stood, like an oak in the heart of a 
devastated forest, alone. Why had he been spared, and to what 
end? Ah, how old he was, how very old! To live beyond the 
allotted time, was not that a punishment for some transgression? 
His eyes shone through a mist of tears.

The princess, too, contemplated the face of the dying man. How 
many times had that face accompanied her in her dreams! How 
familiar she was with every line of it, the lips, that turned 
inward when they smiled; the certain lock of hair that fell upon 
the forehead! And yet, she had seen the face in reality less 
than half a dozen times. Why had it entered so persistently into 
her dreams? Why had the flush risen to her cheeks at the 
thought? At another time she would have refused to listen to the 
voice which answered; but now, as the object of her thoughts lay 
dying on her pillow, her mind would not play truant to her heart.
Sometimes the approach of love is so imperceptible that it does 
not provoke analysis. We wake suddenly to find it in our hearts, 
so strong and splendid that we submit without question. . . . 
All, all her dreams had vanished, the latest and the fairest. 
Across the azure of her youth had come and gone a vague, 
beautiful flash of love. The door of earthly paradise had opened 
and closed. That delicate string which vibrates with the joy of 
living seemed parted; her heart was broken, and her young breast 
a tomb. With straining eyes she continued to gaze. The invisible 
arms of her love clasped Maurice to her heart and held him there.
Only that day he had stood before her, a delight to the eye; 
and she had given him her hand to kiss. How bravely he had gone 
forth from the city! She had followed him with her ardent gaze 
until he was no longer to be seen. And now he lay dying. . . . 
for her.

"Monsieur," she said, turning to the physician, "I have 
something to say to Monseigneur."

The physician bowed and passed into the boudoir, the door of 
which he closed.

"Father," she said to the prelate, "I have no secrets from you." 
She pointed to Maurice. "I love him. I know not why. He comes 
from a foreign land; his language nor his people are mine, and 
yet the thought of him has filled my soul. I have talked to him 
but four different times; and yet I love him. Why? I can not 
tell. The mind has no power to rule the impulse of love. Were he 
to live, perhaps my love would be a sin. Is it not strange, 
father, that I love him? I have lost parental love; I am losing 
a love a woman holds priceless above all others. He is dying 
because of me. He loves me. I read it in his eyes just before he 
fell. Perhaps it is better for him and for me that he should die,
for if he lived I could not live without him. Father, do I sin?"

"No, my child," and the prelate closed his eyes.

"I have been so lonely," she said, "so alone. I craved the love 
of the young. He was so different from any man I had met before. 
His bright, handsome face seemed constantly with me."

At this moment Maurice's breast rose and fell in a long sigh. 
Presently the lids of his eyes rolled upward. Consciousness had 
returned. His wandering gaze first encountered the sad, austere 
visage of the prelate.

"Monseigneur?" he said, faintly.

"Do you wish absolution, my son?"

"I am dying. . . . ?"

"Yes."

"I am dying. . . . God has my account and he will judge it. I am 
not a Catholic, Monseigneur." He turned his head. "Your 
Highness?" He roved about the room with his eyes and discerned 
the feminine touch in all the appointments.

"Where am I?"

"You are in my room, Monsieur," she said. Her voice broke, but 
she met his eyes with a brave smile. "Is there anything we can 
do for you?"

"Nothing. I am alone. To die. . . . Well, one time or another. 
And yet, it is a beautiful world, when we but learn it, full of 
color and life and love. I am young; I do not wish to die. And 
now . . . even in the midst . . . to go . . . where? Monseigneur,
I am dying; to me princes and kings signify nothing. That is 
not to say that they ever did. In the presence of death we are 
all equal. Living, I might not speak; dying . . . since I have 
but a little while to stay . . . I may speak?"

"Yes, my son, speak. Her Highness will listen."

"It is to her Highness that I wish to speak."

Her lips quivered and she made no secret of her tears. "What is 
it you wish to say to me, Monsieur Carewe?" She smoothed his 
forehead, and the touch of her hand made him forget his pain.

"Ah, I know not how to begin," he said. "Forgive me if I offend 
your ears. . . . I have been foolish even to dream of it, but I 
could not help it. . . . When first I saw you in the garden . . 
the old dog was beside you. . . . Even then it came to me that 
my future was linked to the thought of you. I did not know you 
were so far beyond. . . . I was very cold, but I dared not let 
you know it, for fear you would lead me at once to the gate. 
That night wherever I looked I saw you. I strove to think of 
some way to serve you, but I could not. I was so obscure. I 
never thought that you would remember me again; but you did. . . 
That afternoon in the carriage . . . I wanted to tell you then.
That rose you dropped . . . it is still on my heart. I loved 
you, and to this end. And I am glad to die, for in this short 
fortnight I have lived. . . . My mother used to call me Maurice
. . . to hear a woman repeat it again before I go."

"Maurice." She took his hand timidly in hers, and looked at the 
archbishop.

"Speak to him from your heart, my child," said the prelate. "It 
will comfort you both."

Suddenly she drooped and the tears fell upon the hand in hers. 
"Maurice," she whispered, "you have not loved in vain." She 
could utter no more; but she raised her head and looked into his 
eyes, and he saw the glory of the world in hers.

"Into still waters and silence," he said softly. "No more pain, 
nor joy, nor love; silence. . . . You love me! . . . Alexia; how 
often have I repeated that name to myself. . . . I have not 
strength to lift your hand to my lips."

She kissed him on the lips. She felt as if she, too, were dying.

"God guard your Highness," he said. "It is dark. . . . I do not 
see you. . . . "

He tried to raise himself, but he could not. He sank back, 
settled deeply into the pillow, and smiled. After that he lay 
very still.





End of Project Gutenberg's Etext The Puppet Crown, by Harold MacGrath