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Title: The Queen's Advocate

Author: Arthur W. Marchmont

Illustrator: John Cameron

Release date: April 7, 2022 [eBook #67789]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: A. L. Burt Company

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE QUEEN'S ADVOCATE ***





THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE


[Illustration: “OVER AND OVER WE ROLLED IN THE DUSTY ROAD.”

                                                  _Page 15_]




  The Queen’s
  Advocate

  [Illustration]

  _By ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT_


  _Author of “When I Was Czar,” “For Love or Crown,”
  “A Courier of Fortune,” “In The Name of a
  Woman,” “Sarita the Carlist,” etc., etc._

  [Illustration]


  _A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers_
  _NEW YORK_

  [Illustration]




  COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
  ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                  PAGE

       I.  THE RESCUE                         9

      II.  KARASCH                           25

     III.  MORE WITCHCRAFT                   39

      IV.  A CONTEST IN WILL POWER           53

       V.  UNWELCOME VISITORS                67

      VI.  A FIGHT FOR THE HORSES            82

     VII.  ESCAPE                            94

    VIII.  WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT       107

      IX.  FROM BAD TO WORSE                121

       X.  AT POABJA                        137

      XI.  TO SAMAC                         150

     XII.  ON THE HILL AT SAMAC             162

    XIII.  PREPARING FOR THE CAMPAIGN       176

     XIV.  ELMA                             190

      XV.  DEVELOPMENTS                     204

     XVI.  THE ARMY’S PLANS                 217

    XVII.  THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE             232

   XVIII.  A DECLARATION OF WAR             246

     XIX.  PRINCE ALBREVICS                 263

      XX.  THE INSULT                       278

     XXI.  THE DUEL                         291

    XXII.  THE SCENT OF PERIL               304

   XXIII.  A PLAN OF DEFENCE                317

    XXIV.  THE NIGHT OF TERROR              330

     XXV.  IN GATRINA’S HOUSE               343

    XXVI.  CHRIS TO THE RESCUE              356

   XXVII.  MY DEFENCE                       369

  XXVIII.  “I CANNOT LEAVE MY COUNTRY”      383

    XXIX.  PETROSCH HAS A PLAN              396

     XXX.  THE CAMP AGAIN                   409




The Queen’s Advocate




CHAPTER I.

THE RESCUE.


Crack!

It was a rifle shot, sure enough, somewhere in the hills, and Chris
raised his huge head with a low growl and thrust his nose against me in
warning.

I was lying on the flat of my back, my hands clasped under my head,
thinking lazily, as I watched the glorious sunset amid the Gravenje
hills--where the play of sunset colour is at times almost as fine as in
Colorado--and speculated when the storm which was brewing would break.

I had just been chuckling at the idea of what the men in Wall Street
or the dandies of Fifth Avenue would have thought of Chase F. Bergwyn,
millionaire, mine-owner, and financier, could they have seen me then
vagabondising in the Bosnian hills. My dress was a kind of nondescript
native costume, half peasant’s, half miner’s, very dirty and worn with
my rough prospecting work; and I carried a ten days’ growth of scrubby
beard on my sun-tanned face. The report of the rifle stopped the
chuckle on my lips.

One of my men must have been after some hill game, I guessed, and
in the eagerness of the chase had disobeyed my strict orders against
shooting. I was anxious not to draw any unnecessary attention to my
doings. I was after another pile, in fact. When in Vienna, just before,
I had been offered what appeared to be a good thing in the shape of a
concession to work a rich mining district in these Bosnian hills, and,
as I still had a touch of the vagabond in me, I was roughing it in
order that I might look into the thing for myself.

I knew that part of Eastern Europe pretty well. I had lived there as
a lad with a relative stationed in Prague, and as I had the knack of
picking up the Balkan languages, he had found me of such use that he
had taken me with him on many an expedition among the hills in Bosnia,
Servia, and Herzgovina.

I had delighted in the hills, and had carried my love for them across
the Atlantic when things changed and I went to the States in search
of fortune. After a time of pretty hard rough-and-tumble hurly-burly
buffetting I had “struck it rich,” and turned up in New York wealthy
enough to play a strong hand in the big gambles of Wall Street.

Then the wandering fever laid hold of me again, and, remembering my
days in the Balkans, I was seized with the idea of utilising the old
experiences for business purposes. There was money to be made, I
believed; and I opened up communications with folks in Belgrade and
Sofia, and was in Vienna, on my way to the Servian capital, when this
Bosnian mining affair turned up.

The pile was there right enough, just waiting for someone to come
along and harvest it. But whether the difficulties of harvesting
it could be overcome, I should have to settle elsewhere; and until
they were settled I didn’t wish to draw the inquisitive eyes of any
blockheads of Austrian officials upon me.

There were other dangers, too. Lalwor, a hill village, was not far off,
and the reports about the villagers were not pleasing. They were not
likely to jump one’s claim, or do anything of that sort, but were said
to be quite ready to knock me on the head if they had an inkling that I
was a rich foreigner. That at least was the opinion of the man who had
acted as my guide; and probably he knew.

So that, altogether, that shot annoyed me; and I sat up, thinking no
more about either New York or the sunset, but just how to find out who
had fired it, and bent upon punishing him for disobedience. Not so
easy this last as it would have been, had I disliked all the four men
composing my party less and trusted them more.

Crack!

Another shot. This time nearer.

Chris showed greater uneasiness than before, and getting up ran forward
sniffing the air. Almost immediately afterwards I heard a faint
throbbing sound on the earth, uncommonly like a horse’s gallop. But who
could be galloping our way? No one who was at all likely to be welcome;
that was certain. I scented trouble, and calling the dog back crouched
with him behind a bush-covered hillock and gazed, not without some
anxiety, up and down the steep, rough mountain road.

The camp--which consisted of a cottage or hut for my use, a shed for
the horses, and a tent for the men--lay two or three hundred yards
along a gully, which branched off at right angles from this road. I was
lying at the mouth of the gully, and from my position commanded a view
from the top to the bottom of the hill, about a mile in length.

Crack! crack!

Two more shots in quick succession; the throbbing sound of the hoofs
came nearer and nearer; and a horse and rider showed at the top of the
hill. I caught my breath in surprise as I saw the rider was a woman,
who was urging her horse, a wiry little white animal, to its utmost
efforts as it dashed at break-neck speed down the steep, winding,
boulder-strewn, dangerous road.

Next, two horsemen came into sight and, with a loud shout, one of them
reined up, and taking deliberate aim fired at the fugitive woman. My
eye was on her as the shot rang out, and I saw the little white beast
start, and swerve as if hit. The next instant the blood began to run
freely over the flank, and the horse’s gait told me it was badly
wounded.

The men behind saw it, too; and the brute who had fired the shot
shouted to his companion, and then continued the pursuit.

The chase was all but over. The white horse struggled on gamely, but
as it neared the gully where I lay the pace slackened ominously.
Its rider looked back at her pursuers, and then across the ravine;
and then, to my further amazement, I saw that she was no more than
a girl in years--and a very pretty one, too; her face flushed with
the excitement of the mad gallop, her eyes wide with alarm, and her
features set with the courage of desperate resolve.

Her pursuers realised her plight; and being now sure of capturing her,
slung their guns and rode down the ugly path very cautiously.

I made ready to take my share in the business. I had my revolver in my
hip pocket, and drew it out, but did not show myself. My intention was
to let her pass and then get between her and the men. But her horse
was done. The bullet had evidently found the artery, for the blood
was spurting out fast; and just before she reached the spot where I
crouched the poor beast lurched badly and half sank on its quarters.
The rider had only time to jump cleverly and quickly from the saddle
when the end came, and the gallant little horse rolled over.

She must have given up all for lost then; but she showed no sign of
faltering courage. One swift, desperate glance round she gave, as if in
search of some chance of escape, and I saw her face was pale and set,
but full of determination. Then, drawing a dainty little stiletto from
her dress, she stood at bay behind the body of the dying horse with a
calmness all eloquent of pluck and nerve.

Meanwhile, with Chris at my heel, and keeping as much as possible under
cover, I crept forward until I was opposite to her. The men dismounted
when they were still some fifty yards or so above her, and they were
rushing forward to close upon her when I showed myself, with Chris
growling ominously at my side.

The surprise caused by my unexpected appearance gave me a moment’s
advantage.

“Have no fear. The dog will guard you,” I called to her as I
passed. “Guard, Chris, guard, good dog,” I told him; and instantly
understanding me, he ran to her side.

“Thank God,” I heard her murmur as I sprang toward the men, with my
revolver levelled at them.

“You may give it up,” I cried; but that was not their view. One of them
swung his gun round on the instant, and was in the act of levelling it
at me when I fired, aiming low, and shot him in the leg, bringing him
to the ground.

His companion hesitated at this, then clubbed his gun and appeared to
be about to attack me, when he suddenly changed his mind and made a
dart for the horses. I dashed after him, and as he vaulted into the
saddle I fired at his horse and wounded it. Uttering a cry of rage, he
leapt with extraordinary agility to the unwounded horse, and might then
have got off had not the reins of both animals become entangled. Before
he could disengage them I had closed up to him.

I called to him to surrender, but he had plenty of fight in him, and,
taking me no doubt for the peasant I looked, he first struck at me
furiously with his gun, and then tried to ride me down.

I checked that effort with a bullet in his horse’s head, however, and
threatened to put one into the man himself if he did not submit. But
still he would not.

Leaping free of the falling horse he surprised me by running back
down the hill helter-skelter towards the girl, who stood watching us
with breathless interest. I thought he meant to attack her, and, wild
with sudden anger, I rushed after him. He had apparently remembered,
however, that his comrade’s gun was loaded and his object was to secure
it.

But Chris stopped this. The weapon lay near the girl and Chris sprang
forward and snarled so savagely looking so formidable and dangerous,
that the man hesitated, and before his hesitation was over I caught
up and closed with him. Over and over we rolled in the dusty road in
a fierce, hand-to-hand tussle, writhing, kicking, and sprawling as we
gripped each other in that desperate wrestle. But I had the advantage
of method. I was Cumberland bred, and in my boyhood had learnt some
tricks and falls which had stood me in good stead before now in many a
“scrap” in my rough-and-tumble mining days in Colorado and Montana.

I got my grip of him presently, and bit by bit moved my hands up till
my fingers were playing on his windpipe, and he was seeing stars as I
dashed his thick head again and again on the hard road, until all the
fight and all his senses too were knocked out of him.

Then I rose, and taking the reins from the girl’s horse, I tied him up
securely with them.

All this time I had not spoken to her, except that first sentence; but
I had caught her great grey eyes fixed upon me questioningly as she
followed every action. Before going to her I had a look at the man
I had shot, and found his leg was broken between the knee and the
ankle. I had some rough knowledge of surgery--one picks up such things
knocking about the world as I had--so I probed about with my knife and
found the bullet, which was in the muscular calf, cleansed the wound as
best I could, and set the bone. Then I placed him in as comfortable a
position as I could, and told him not to move until I could do more.

This done, I rose and went to the girl. She was now leaning against a
boulder by the wayside, deathly pale, and to my infinite concern I saw
that her dress was all blood-stained. One of the coward’s bullets must
have hit her, I thought.

“Are you hit?” I asked. I spoke in Serb, as I was more familiar with
that than any other of the Balkan languages.

“No. It is the blood from this poor beast.”

“Thank God for that. You’re very pale, but you won’t have any more
trouble from the men. I’ll see to that.”

Instead of replying she appeared in some way to resent my tone of
reassurance, and looked at me steadily with this curious expression
of resentment mingled with gratitude and some fear. But she had made
friends with Chris, and the great fellow was pushing his head against
her as she stroked him.

“You were very brave,” I said after a pause, during which I could not
keep my eyes off her. She was indeed a beautiful girl, with a figure of
queenly grace, and I daresay some of the intense admiration I felt may
have shown in my glance. I had never seen so lovely a face.

“If that man is much hurt you had better see to him,” she said, with a
distinct note of command in her voice.

“His leg’s broken. I’m going to improvise a splint, and then get help.”

“Help?” Quick suspicion prompted the question. “Do you live about here?”

I shut down a smile. She took me for a peasant; and well she might,
I thought, as I glanced down at my clothes, dust-stained, torn, and
dishevelled.

“There is a cottage close here and a tent,” I answered, evading her
question and her glance. There was clearly a mystery about her to
be solved. It was as evident as that she herself was well-born, and
accustomed to give orders for which she expected prompt obedience. But
leaving all explanations over for the time, I set about making the
splint.

Returning to the men’s horses I took off the bridle and saddle of the
dead one, cut away the saddle flaps, and carried them and the reins to
the injured man. The flaps made good splints, and I bound them tightly
with the reins round his leg. He had borne all my crude surgery work
with such stoicism that I guessed he was a Turk, and spoke to him in
the little Turkish I knew, telling him I would get help and have him
removed directly. He grunted something about being all right, and soon
was smoking as placidly as though nothing had happened, and a broken
leg was one of the usual events of daily life.

I returned then to the girl, who was sitting on the ground with her
hands clasped over her face. I guessed she was as desperately puzzled
as I was what to do next.

She sprang up quickly as I approached, and again stared at me with much
the same expression of anxiety and doubt.

“You seem very clever and resourceful,” she said. “Can yet get me a
horse?”

“What for? To lose yourself in the darkness among the hills?”

“I can pay you--later, I mean. I have no money on me. Tell me how to
send it to you, and I will give you any price you name. And I will add
to it a generous reward for what you have done already.”

“Do you think you are strong enough to travel yet? You are still very
white, and trembling like a leaf. You are scarcely used to this sort of
thing, you see.”

“I can judge that for myself,” she answered, almost haughtily, making a
great effort to rally her shaken nerves.

“I don’t think you are. You don’t realise yet how much this thing has
shaken you.”

“I am not accustomed to be contradicted in this way.”

“You are very near contradicting yourself by fainting,” I answered. I
could see it plainly. “How long have you been without food?”

“I do not wish you to question me. Can you get me a horse, or must I
try to walk? I must have a horse.”

“There’s another reason. If you know anything of these hills you’ll
know what a storm means among them; and there’s one brewing now.
Listen.” As I spoke we heard the rumbling of distant thunder among the
hills.

“I cannot stay here, in any case,” she shot back quickly. Then, after
a pause, “Who are you? Your name, I mean?” This in her sharp imperious
manner.

“My name is Bergwyn.” I slurred the pronunciation intentionally. I had
strong reasons for not wishing anyone to know I had been on the hills
on my mission.

But the effect of the name upon her was remarkable; and her agitation
was too great to be concealed even by the effort she made. She appeared
completely unnerved; and while her eyes opened wide in unmistakable
fear, she shrank from me as though I were a pestilence incarnate.

“Bourgwan--the--the brigand? I have heard of you.” The words were just
a whisper, uttered with a catch of the breath all eloquent of terror.

“No, I’m not----” I began with a smile intended to reassure her; but
before I could finish the sentence her own unfortunate guess had
completed her undoing, and with a little gasping sob down she went in a
heap to the ground unconscious, to my utter consternation.

Disconcerting as her collapse was, it nevertheless had the result of
deciding me what to do. Another clap of thunder came at the moment;
and, without waiting to think any longer, I picked her up and set off
as quickly as I could along the ravine to the camp.

She had not recovered consciousness when I reached the cottage; and
as there was but one room in it, I laid her on the bed, bundled my few
things together, tossed them out of sight, and leaving the dog with
her, I went over to the tent.

I found my four men asleep there, and waking them with an impartial
kick or two, sent them down to bring up the prisoner and his wounded
companion.

Then I began to realise what a really awkward matter it was likely to
be to have a girl, and such a girl, quartered upon us. I was not by any
means sure of my own men, even. They had been chosen by the guide; but
even he had deemed them so worthless and unreliable that he had gone
off that morning in search of others. Without him my position was very
grave. He was already a couple of hours overdue; and with this storm
coming up it was long odds that he would not arrive until the next
morning at the earliest.

Still the thing had to be faced. I must take my chance in the tent with
the men that night, and trust to my own authority and vigilance and
wits.

I went back to the cottage, and was alarmed to find the girl still
unconscious; so I got some brandy, and supporting her head managed to
get a few drops between her lips. This soon had an effect, and after a
repetition of the remedy she opened her eyes with a deep, long-drawn
sigh, and gave a great start as she found me bending over her and
herself on the bed in the hut.

“It’s all right,” I said, soothingly. “You fainted, probably from
exhaustion and the fright you had, and I brought you here. It was the
only thing I could do. You are perfectly safe, and the best thing you
can do is to be quiet until you can eat something. As soon as you’re
well enough I’ll find you a horse and send you wherever you want to go.”

She listened very quietly, and smiled. A rare thing, that smile of hers.

“I want you to feel you can trust me. I am not that brigand, Bourgwan,
or any other brigand, as it happens; although my name is sufficiently
like his to cause you to make the mistake you did about it. It’s all
very rough here; but it’s the best we can do for you. Now, do you think
you can feel safe enough to eat and drink something without believing
we mean to poison you?”

“Don’t.” It was only a whisper, but it was good hearing.

“I’ve had to give you a little brandy. Here’s some more, if you’ll like
it; and I can get you some preserved milk and biscuits presently. Shall
I leave you alone here?”

The light had gone as the storm gathered; and just as I spoke the storm
burst right overhead with a flare of lightning that filled the small
room with lurid light, followed by a deafening clap of thunder which
seemed almost to shake the earth until the hut trembled.

But she showed no fear of the storm; so that I gathered she was used to
the violence with which they raged in that district. She sat staring
out of the one narrow window wistfully and disconsolately.

“I cannot go?” she said, making it almost a question.

I threw the door wider open, and pointed to the rain that was coming
down in sheets--just like a tropical downpour.

“Quite impossible--you can see.”

She rose and looked out, shuddered, and then went back to the bed with
a sigh of disappointment. Some moments passed then. The storm raged
furiously: the lightning flaring and flashing with intense brilliance,
filling the sordid little dingy room almost continuously with its vivid
blue light; the thunder pealing and crashing and roaring as though the
very heavens would split; and the rain sweeping and swirling down like
a flood.

And within there was silence between us: she sitting dead still on the
low pallet, the dog haunched by her side; and I standing, very ill at
ease, near the door, not knowing what to say or do next, and feeling
very much of an awkward fool. I wanted to know that she trusted me, and
would have given anything for a word from her to show she did; while at
the same time I felt I would have bitten my tongue out rather than have
asked for such a word.

Yet out it came, nevertheless.

“You feel better and--and safe?” I asked.

The lightning showed me that she moved slightly, turned her head and
glanced toward me just for an instant, but said nothing.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” I murmured fatuously, and went out and
pelted through the rain to the tent.

I had got some biscuits and a tin of milk, when a thought occurred to
me. The men had not returned, and their guns piled in a corner of
the tent caught my eye as I was leaving. I made a bundle of them and
carried them away. I could trust my men just as well if they had no
firearms.

When I got back to the hut she was sitting on the side of the bed and
had quite shaken off the faintness.

“You need not have gone through the rain--but I suppose you are used to
it?” she said.

“A man in my position has to get used to anything. Here are the
biscuits and the milk. I’ve some tinned meat in the cupboard here. Can
you eat?”

“What are those?” she cried, pointing to the guns.

“The men’s guns. Best to keep them in the dry, you see.” I spoke as
indifferently as I could; but she was very quick, and by the light of
the storm I saw her eyes upon my face, with a sharp, piercing look.

“That’s not your reason. I hear it in your voice. Is there anything
more to fear?”

“No.” It was a lie, of course, but I uttered it stoutly, feeling the
need of it. “If you’ll eat some of this and get some strength back,
I’ll explain the position presently.”

“What’s that?” she asked, starting and listening.

In an interval of the storm I heard the voices of the men raised in
high tones.

“Nothing, only the men with the prisoner,” I replied calmly; but I
didn’t understand the reason for the high voices, and didn’t like it.
“I’ll just go and see them.”

“Don’t go, please.” Half command, in the same imperious tone I was
getting to know well; but unmistakably also half entreaty. It was the
note I had been waiting for so eagerly, and I felt myself go hot with
pleasure. She did trust me.

“As you wish,” I answered. “But I had better go.”

There was a pause, and then she said, in a quiet level tone:

“You must do as you think best, of course.”

“Chris here will answer for your safety. Try and eat something,” I
said; and with that I ran back again to the tent.

In a moment I saw something was wrong. My four men were clustered near
the fellow whose leg I had broken, quarrelling angrily, with many
gestures; while the man I had made prisoner was not in the tent at all.

“Where’s the other man?” I asked.

They all turned at the sound of my voice, and one of them, with whom I
had before had some bother, took the question to himself. He shrugged
his broad shoulders, first scowled, and then laughed insolently.

“He’s escaped,” he said, his tone a mixture of doggedness and defiance.

The trouble I had been looking for had come, just when it was most
unwelcome.




CHAPTER II.

KARASCH.


I had had to deal with worse trouble than this before, however, and to
tackle far more dangerous men than the fellow who, having sounded the
first note of rebellion, stood eyeing me with lowering brows, while his
fingers played round the haft of the knife he carried.

These Eastern Europeans can be dangerous enough in a crowd, or in the
dark, or in any circumstances which offer a chance of treachery. But
they don’t fight well alone or in the open. That’s where they differ
from the desperadoes of the West and the mining camps; and I knew it.

The tent was a very large one, affording plenty of room for a
scrimmage, and as I walked straight up to the man, keeping my eyes
fixed on his, the rest drew back a little. That’s another peculiarity
of the people of the hills. They will back up a companion so long as
the man in command is out of the way, and then back down quite as
promptly when the music has to be faced.

“See here, Karasch,” I said to the ringleader; “I don’t want any more
trouble with you--or with anyone else; but I’m not taking any insolence
from you. Mind that, now. What do you mean by saying the prisoner
escaped?”

Before he answered he glanced round at his companions.

“He ran away,” he muttered.

“I tied him up so that he couldn’t run. Who set him free? Whoever did
that will answer to me.”

“Karasch did it,” answered one of the others. Then I guessed the reason
of the high words I had heard, and that the speaker, whose name was
Gartski, had been against the thing in opposition to the rest.

“Why did you do it, Karasch?”

“Because I chose to; I’m no wench minder,” he replied with an insolent
laugh.

I did not hesitate a second, but while the laugh was still on his lips
I struck him full in the face as hard as I could hit him, and down he
went like a ninepin. He scrambled up, cursing and swearing and spitting
out the blood from his mouth, and made ready to rush at me with his
long knife, when I covered him with my revolver.

“Put that knife down, Karasch,” I cried, sternly. “Don’t try any monkey
tricks with me. And you others, choose right now which side you’re on.
I’ve been looking for this trouble for a couple of days past, and I’m
quite ready for it.”

Gartski came to my side, and one of the others, Petrov, drew to
Karasch; the fourth, Andreas, remaining undecided.

“You’re faithful to me, Gartski?” I asked. My guide had told me before
that he was, so I felt certain of him.

“My life is yours,” he answered simply.

“Good; then we’ll soon settle this. Wait, Karasch. There isn’t room
for two leaders in this camp, and we’ll settle this between us--you and
I alone--once for all.”

I took Gartski’s knife and handed him my revolver.

“If anyone tries to interfere in the quarrel, shoot him, Gartski,”
I said, and knife in hand I turned to the others. “Now, Karasch, if
you’re man enough, we’ll fight on equal terms.”

“Good,” said the other two. It was a proposition fair enough to please
them all, particularly as his supporters believed Karasch could account
for me pretty easily in such a fight.

He was quite ready for the tussle, and we began at once. The tent was
so gloomy--we had only the dim light from a couple of lanterns--that it
was with some difficulty I could keep track of his eyes as he crouched
down and moved stealthily around, watching his opportunity to catch
me at a disadvantage for his spring, his long ugly knife reflecting a
gleam now from one and now from the other of the lanterns as he moved.

The storm was still raging furiously, and now and again a lurid glare
of the lightning would light up the tent for an instant so vividly that
the place seemed almost dark by contrast the next moment.

The men drew to one side watching us, and the wounded prisoner, stoic
as he had shown himself in his pain, propped himself up on one arm and
followed the fight with close interest.

My antagonist’s fighting was in the approved cat-like method. Crouching
low, he would move, with lithe, stealthy tread, for a step or two,
then pause, then spring suddenly in a feinted attack, then as quickly
recover himself, and begin all over again.

Fortunately I was no novice at the game; but I had learnt the thing in
another school. A Mexican had taught me--an adept with the knife, with
half a score of lives to the credit of his skill. I stood all the time
quite still; every nerve at tension, every muscle ready for the spring
when the moment came, but wasting no strength in useless feints. The
less you do before the moment comes, the more you can do when it does
come.

Never for an instant did my eyes stray from his; noting every change of
expression; watching every movement, step, and gesture; almost every
breath he drew; and using every second to find the weak spot in his
attack.

I soon saw his purpose. He was striving to make me give ground and
drive me back to where I should have no elbow room for free movement.
But I did not yield an inch, not even when he sprang so near me in one
of his feints as to make me think he meant business at last.

Instead of giving ground I began to take it. Twice he made as if to
rush at me and each time as he leapt back I stepped a pace forward. As
the tent was too small to admit of his circling me, he saw that he was
losing ground; and I noticed a shadow of uneasiness come creeping to
his eyes.

Then I saw my plan, and the real shrewdness of the Mexican’s tactics.
My opponent’s method had a serious flaw. During the moment that he was
recovering himself after his feints he was incapable of attack, and if
I could close with him at one of those moments I should have him at an
immense disadvantage.

With this thought I drew him on. When his next feinting spring came
I fell back a pace, and I could tell by the renewed light in his
eyes that he felt reassured and confident. He had made me give way,
apparently, and felt he could easily drive me back until he would have
me at his mercy.

The next time I repeated the manœuvre, and then a grim grin of triumph
lighted his face. He crouched again and moved about me, stalking me to
drive me into an awkward corner of the place, his eyes gleaming the
while with fierce confidence and murderous intent.

Inspired by this over-confidence, he sprang at me again, this time
too far, calculating that I should again give way. But I did not,
and as he jumped back hurriedly to retrieve the mistake I closed on
him, caught his right wrist with my left hand, and pressed him back,
chest to chest, holding my right hand away from his left which groped
frantically and desperately to clutch it.

In that kind of tussle he was no match for me. I had all a trained
wrestler’s tricks with my legs, and tripped him in a moment so that he
went down with his left arm under him. I heard the bone snap as we fell
and I tore the knife from his grip.

His life was mine by all the laws of combat in that wild district, and
for a moment I held my weapon poised ready to strike home to his heart.

To do him justice he neither quailed, nor uttered a sound. If he had
shown a sign of weakness I think I should have finished the thing as I
was fairly entitled to, and have killed him. But he was a brave fellow,
so I spared him and got up and turned to the rest.

“Do either of you dispute my leadership?” I said to the others. But
they had had their lesson, and had apparently learnt it thoroughly.

“It was Karasch’s doing, and his only,” said Petrov, who had formerly
taken sides against me.

“Get up, Karasch,” I said, in a short sharp tone. He got up, and I saw
his left arm was dangling uselessly at his side. “Now tell me why you
set that prisoner free?”

“You can fight. Your muscles are like iron. I’ll serve a man who can
fight as you can,” he growled.

“That’s a bargain,” said I. “Here;” and I held out my hand. He looked
at me in surprise.

“By the living God,” he muttered, as he put his hand slowly into mine.

“Here’s your knife,” I said next, returning it to him.

He drew back, his surprise greater even than before.

“You trust it to me?” He took it in the same slow hesitating manner;
and then with a quick change of manner he set his heel on it and with a
fierce and savage tug at the haft, he broke the bright blade in two.

“It’s been raised against you; and I’m your man now and for always,”
and down he went on one knee, and seizing my hand kissed it, and then
laid it on his head.

Demonstrative folk these rough wild hill men of Eastern Europe, and I
knew the significance of this act of personal homage.

So did the others who had watched this quaint result of the fight with
the same breathless interest as they had followed the fight itself.

“If you serve me well you’ll find I can pay better than I can fight,
Karasch,” I said, as he rose.

“I’m not serving for pay now,” he replied simply. “I serve you. My life
is yours. Gartski, go and saddle a couple of the horses.”

“What for?” I asked.

“I’ll go and find the prisoner. He can’t have ridden far in this storm;
and I know his road.”

“But your arm is broken.”

“We can tie it up while he gets the horses.”

“Tell me why you set him free, Karasch,” I said, as Gartski and Andreas
went out. “And while you talk I’ll see to your arm.” I examined it, and
found the fracture in the upper arm; and having set it as best I could
I dressed it and bound it up while he spoke.

“On account of the woman,” he said. “I know the man, and he told
me about her. She’s a witch and a thief and worse, and comes from
Belgrade. She murdered a child, and was being sent to Maglai, in the
hills, to be imprisoned; and this morning cast a spell over the men
who were taking her and escaped. They were to have a big sum of money
if they got her safe to Maglai, and the man promised me a share of
it if I’d let him go back and bring his friends here to retake her. I
have no mercy for a witch. God curse them all;” and he crossed himself
earnestly and spat on the ground.

“She is no witch, Karasch, but just a girl in a plight.”

“A witch can look just as she pleases. You don’t know them,
Burgwan”--this was how they pronounced my name. “She was an old woman
when she left Belgrade. My friend told me that; and she’s been growing
younger every hour. She’s known to be a hundred years old at least.
She’s cast her spell over you.”

This was true enough; although not in the sense he meant. He was so
obviously in earnest that I saw it was useless to attempt to argue him
out of his superstition.

“Well, witch or no witch, spell or no spell, I am going to see her into
safety,” I answered firmly.

“You’ll live to rue it, Burgwan. If I help you, it’s because I serve
you; not to serve her, God’s curse on her;” and he crossed himself
again and spat again, as he always did when he spoke of her. “If you
want to be safe from her spells and the devil, her master, you’d better
twist her neck at midnight and lop off her hands. It’s the only way to
break the spell when once cast.”

“Ah, well, I’ll try and find another way. And I’ll take all the risks.
Was that what you were all wrangling about when I came in the hut just
now?”

“Yes. She’s done harm enough, already. That man’s broken leg, three
good horses killed, and now my arm;” and he cursed her again bitterly.
“It’ll be you next,” he added.

“It’ll not be my arm that she breaks,” was my thought.

“What he says is true,” interposed the man whom I had shot. “She’s a
witch and a devil. Else how did she know when to escape and how to ride
here to you?”

“Answer that, Burgwan,” said Karasch, confidently. “How could she know,
if she weren’t a witch?”

Gartski came in then to say the horses were ready, and his entrance
made any reply unnecessary, for Karasch rose at once, went out and
mounted.

“I’ll bring him back,” he said, “I know I can find him unless that
devil blinds the track.”

“Why should she do that, as it’s for her own advantage?” I asked; but
he and Andreas were already moving off, and his answer was lost in the
night air.

The storm had passed and the rain ceased, and as I watched the two men
ride off, the moon came out from behind the clouds, so that I could
follow the horses for some distance down the ravine. As soon as they
had passed out of sight I turned to the hut.

I did not enter, but stood near the little window and leant against the
wall thinking. The tale I had heard concerning the girl had made me
very thoughtful. Those who know anything of the ignorant superstition
of the peasantry of the Balkans will best appreciate the danger to her
of that grim reputation. I had heard scores of stories of men and women
who had been done to death with merciless barbarity for witchcraft.
The mere charge itself was enough to turn from them any chance of fair
trial and justice: and I knew there was not one of the men with me who
would not have thought he was doing a Christian act to strangle her.
To kill her was to aim a blow at the devil: the accepted duty of every
God-fearing man and woman.

But it was not so much her danger that set me thinking then as the
reason which must lie behind the accusation. Who could have been
devilish enough to set such a brand upon her; and why? Did she know her
reputation? There must have been some black work somewhere to account
for the plight to which such a girl had thus been reduced.

High-born and gently nurtured she certainly was; accustomed to command
and to be obeyed, as she had given abundant proofs; endowed with beauty
and grace far beyond the average of her sex; and with innocence and
purity stamped on every feature and manifesting itself in every act!
Great enough to have powerful enemies, probably, I guessed; and in that
I looked to find the key to the problem.

I was in the midst of these somewhat rambling thoughts when the
casement was pushed open gently.

“Is it you, Burgwan?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What are you doing there?” I was beginning to listen now for the
little note of command in her voice.

“I am on watch.”

“I have turned you from your cottage.” This was half apologetic:
followed directly by the other tone. “You will be well paid.”

“Thank you.” It was no use protesting. It seemed to please her to feel
that she could repay me for any trouble; and it did no harm to humour
her.

“The storm is over. Can we not start?”

“Where would you go?”

She hesitated. “I wish to get to the railway.”

“To go where?”

“Do not question me.”

“I beg your pardon. I am not questioning you in the sense you imply.
There are two lines of railway about the same distance away. One leads
to Serajevo, the other to Belgrade.”

“How far away?”

“The former perhaps twenty miles; the other I don’t know.”

She caught her breath at this. “Where am I, then?”

“In the middle of the Gravenje hills.”

“God have mercy on me.” It was only a whisper; but so eloquent of
despair.

“You need not despair. It is as easy to travel forty miles as thirty;
and twenty are not much worse than ten. I will see you through.” But
this touched her dignity again.

“You shall be well paid,” she repeated. I let it pass, and there came a
pause.

“Can we not start?”

“You have not told me for which railway; but it doesn’t matter, as we
cannot start to-night.”

“Why not?” The imperative mood again.

“My guide is not here.”

“Your guide?” Suspicion and incredulity now. “Do you mean to say you
don’t know your own country? Do you expect me to believe that? It is a
mere excuse.”

“Have you found me deceive you yet in anything?”

“There may have been no cause yet.”

“Will it not be more just to wait until you do find cause then?”

Another pause followed.

“I don’t wish to anger you,” she said, with a touch of nervousness; and
as if to correct the impression, she added: “Perhaps you do not think I
can keep my promise to pay you.”

“You may disbelieve me, but I don’t disbelieve you. I have told you no
more than the truth.”

“But why do you need a guide?” she asked after a moment’s thought.

“Because I don’t know the way, and don’t care to trust to the men here
now.”

“But if it is your own country, why don’t you know it?”

“It is not my own country.” This surprised her, and again she was
silent for a time.

“Who are you?” was the next question. “And where do you belong?”

“I am Burgwan.”

“That is the name of the brigand.”

[Illustration: “IN A SECOND SHE WAS IN THE GRIP OF HALF A DOZEN MEN.”

                                                         _Page 136_ ]


“I know that; but I am not a brigand. And now I think you had better
try and rest. If we are to reach the railway to-morrow, it will be a
long day’s ride, and you must get some sleep. You can sleep in perfect
safety, the dog will stay with you.”

“You are a strange man, Burgwan. What are you?”

“Does it matter so long as I can bring you out of this plight? Do what
I ask, please. Rest and get sleep and strength.”

“Do you presume to give me your orders?”

“Yes, when they are for your good. Have you eaten anything?”

“It is for me to give orders, not to obey them.”

“Have you eaten what I brought you?”

“Yes.”

“So far well, then. Good-night;” and I moved a pace or two away.

“Where are you going?”

“I shall be out here all night within call. And you have Chris.” She
looked at me in the moonlight and our eyes met.

“Why do I trust you, Burgwan?” I started with pleasure.

“It doesn’t matter so long as you do. Good-night.”

“It is a shame for you to have to stay there all night; but I shall
feel safe if you do.”

“It’s all right.” I was smitten suddenly with nervousness and answered
brusquely.

“I shall sleep, Burgwan. Good-night.”

Her tone had a touch of gentle confidence, and I thought she smiled.
But I did not look straight at her and made no reply.

In one way she was a witch, truly enough; she had cast over me a
spell which made me feel to her as I had never felt toward any other
woman; and I leaned back against the wall with my arms folded thinking,
thinking, aye, and dreaming, for all that I was full awake and my every
sense alert and vigilant on my watch.

Presently, how soon or how long afterwards I know not, I heard the
casement opened softly and she peeped out and round at me.

“You are still there, Burgwan?”

“I said I would be, and I generally keep my word.”

“You are not going to stand all night?”

“No; there’s a stone here that will serve for a seat if I tire.”

She drew in her head for a moment, and I heard her move something in
the cottage.

“There is a chair here and a rug. Take them;” and she put them out
through the window.

“You are kindly thoughtful,” I said. But here again I seemed to cross
the curious dividing line in her thoughts, for she drew her head up,
and looked at me half indignantly.

“Good-night.” She spoke very stiffly, and closed the casement with
sharp abruptness.

But I forgave the action for the kindness of the thought, and resumed
my watch and my dreaming.




CHAPTER III.

MORE WITCHCRAFT.


The night hours sped away with only one incident to disturb us. I heard
a strange noise which I could not locate nor understand, and as I stood
listening intently Chris, within the hut, barked loudly.

I heard the girl speak to him, and was half minded to ask her to let
him out that he might help my watch; but I heard nothing more, and so
let the thing pass.

Day had broken before Karasch returned. He was alone, and had only
failure and mishap to report. Trouble had dogged him from the start.
He had not seen a trace of the man he had gone out to find. His
companion’s horse had put his foot in a hole and broken his leg, and
nearly killed Andreas, who was lying some fifteen miles away in the
hills; while Karasch himself had twice been thrown, the second time
with disastrous results to his broken arm.

He left no doubt as to where he laid the blame.

“We are bewitched, Burgwan,” he said, his brow frowning and his glance
threatening. “In five years I have never once been thrown; and now
twice within as many hours. The spell was upon us, and we were not
meant to find the man.”

“Does anyone cast spells for their own hurt, Karasch? It was necessary
for her safety that the man should be caught and prevented from
bringing his comrades here.”

“You are not of this country, or you would know better. These devils
work their own ends in their own ways. I lifted my hand against you
because of her, and have brought the spell upon me. God defend us;” and
he crossed himself earnestly.

“But why should she help to bring her pursuers here?” I repeated; and
might as well have reasoned with the wind.

“You do not know. He will never reach his friends; or, if he does, the
way hither will be hidden from them.”

“Don’t be a blind fool, Karasch,” I exclaimed, losing my temper.

He looked at me and shook his head slowly with a suggestion of
commiseration.

“It is not I who am the fool or blind, Burgwan,” he answered, almost
sadly. “Listen. The first time I was thrown, I saw before me a
stretch of beautiful turf and pricked my horse to a gallop across it
when he plunged right into a pit; and I wonder I was not killed. The
next time, just before dawn, I was feeling my way carefully when she
herself appeared suddenly in front of me, all white fire, and flashing
a gleaming sword before my eyes. I checked my horse, in fear, and he
reared and fell back almost on top of me. Is not that enough to prove
the spell?”

It proved to me that he had either been asleep on his horse or was
suffering from disordered nerves as the result of fatigue and the pain
from his arm; but when I told him so, he grew more morose and pitying
in his manner.

“I know why you talk as you do,” he said. “You have looked into her
eyes. The spell is on you, too--on all here; and we shall die--unless
she does.” The last three words were uttered after a long pause,
during which he had glanced ominously and fearsomely toward the hut.
Superstition held him in its thrall.

I judged it best to check the thought under the words at once.

“The man who lays a finger on her to her hurt will have to reckon with
me, Karasch,” I said, sternly, and turned away.

He made no reply, but rode on to the shed some distance to the rear of
the tent, where we stalled the horses.

I began to scent a fresh danger for the “witch,” and was fast growing
as anxious as she herself could be to get away. If Karasch believed
that he would be saving me from the spell by killing her, I knew he was
quite capable of doing it in the face of any commands I might lay upon
him and the others.

It was easy to guess at his crude reasoning. I had looked into her
eyes, and was thus under her spell while she lived. My orders for
her safety would thus be regarded as the result of the accursed
enchantment; and they would only have to kill her to free me from the
spell and make me to see that they had done the right thing. They would
feel that I should then be as eager to reward them for her murder as I
was now to forbid them touching her.

Added to this was the actual and pressing danger arising from the fact
that the man who had pursued her had escaped to carry the tidings of
her whereabouts to his companions and bring them down upon us, perhaps
in force.

The situation was growing tighter with every fresh turn, and I made up
my mind to rush matters and get away at once. I would not wait for the
return of my guide, but take the risk of finding my way alone.

I had just made this decision when Gartski came running round the tent
with a white, scared face. He stopped some yards short of the hut, as
if loath to come too near the abode of the accursed one, and crossed
himself.

“The horses have been killed, Burgwan. Will you come to the shed to
Karasch?”

The news, if true, was ill enough to make me change colour, and I went
back with him.

“We are all under a curse. It is witch’s work,” he said in a curiously
awed tone; and he wrung his hands and crossed himself again. I was
beginning to regard that gesture of devotion with a pretty considerable
dislike by that time.

The news was true enough. The three horses lay dead on the shed floor,
each in a pool of blood; and on the quarter of each of them a small
ring of blood was to be seen some two inches across. Peering into the
shed stood the horse from which Karasch had just dismounted, his neck
outstretched and his ears cocked in fear.

Karasch and Petrov were inside, preternaturally grave and awe-struck.
Both looked as frightened as Gartski when he had come running with the
news to me; and Karasch pointed ominously in turn at the marks on each
of the dead animals.

“The witch’s mark. It’s always there,” he said.

It was unquestionably very strange, and I looked solemn enough no
doubt to lead them to believe I was beginning to share their own
superstitious fears. It was about the worst thing that could have
occurred at such a juncture; and for the moment I could think of
nothing but the possible consequences of so disastrous an occurrence.

With an effort I roused myself and examined the “witch’s” mark on each
of the beasts. A circle had been cut with the point of a sharp knife,
the mark being just skin deep.

“How did they die, do you think, Karasch?”

He pointed again to the marks and smiled grimly, as though the cause
were too plain to need words.

“And all this blood?” I asked.

He shrugged his great shoulders.

I looked at Gartski and the third man closely, for any sign that they
had had a hand in it; but their superstitious fear was too genuine to
be doubted.

“Turn the horses over,” I ordered; but they shrank away and obstinately
refused to put a finger near them.

“Who is smeared with the blood of a witch-killed beast dies before the
moon is old,” said Karasch. “They must burn where they lie.”

“You’re a set of fools,” I cried angrily. But neither anger nor request
was heeded.

I took the iron bar from the door, and levering it under the smallest
of the horses turned the carcase over sufficiently to find what I
sought--the cause of death. There was a wound just under the heart. The
horse had been stabbed with a sword or long knife. Whoever had done the
work knew where and how to strike so as to kill instantly.

I went outside then and searched the ground all round the door
carefully.

“Come back to the tent all of you,” I said. I led the way, scrutinising
every inch of the ground and following a somewhat unaccountable trail I
had discovered. It led direct to the tent.

“Let me see to your arm, Karasch,” I said first, intending to let
them have some minutes to recover from the first effects of their
stupefaction.

“No, Burgwan. You have cursed blood on you. You cannot touch me. I
should die, too.”

“Very well, then, we’ll settle this thing first. You saddled Karasch’s
horse last night, Gartski. Did you fasten the shed afterwards?”

“No; we never fasten it. Bars won’t keep out devils.”

“This is the work of no devil. Those horses have been killed by someone
who plunged a knife into their hearts and then cut that ring on the
haunch. I saw the wound myself on the beast I examined. They were all
right when you left them?”

“Yes, quite right.”

“Did either of you go near the shed again until Karasch returned, or
did you sleep?” I asked next, remembering the strange noise I had
heard in the night.

“We had had a long day, and both slept soundly.”

“We’re getting very close to it now,” I answered. I turned to our
prisoner with the broken leg. “How is your leg this morning, my man?”

“Very painful, but better,” he replied after a pause.

“Did you sleep, or did you hear anything in the night?”

“I slept all through the night. I was asleep when you came in just now.”

“Then it ought not to be so painful. I’ll have a look at it.”

“No, no,” he cried, putting up his hands to ward me off. “Don’t touch
me. You have touched the accursed blood.”

“Do you believe in it, too?” and I looked keenly at him.

He crossed himself earnestly and spat on the floor.

“Stay, stay. You’re a Turk! why do you cross yourself with the cross
of the Christians? I won’t touch you against your will, but I must see
how your leg is doing. Lift him up, Gartski,” and I pointed to a bench.
They hesitated. “Do as I say; and smartly, too. You know me,” I cried
sternly.

The man objected and protested with many oaths, and cursed me volubly.
But I insisted; and the others did not dare to disobey me. Karasch
himself plucked the man’s rug off, and the other two lifted him.

The mystery was instantly plain to me. The man was smeared from head
to foot with mud and blood, the traces of which he had tried to remove;
and lying where his body had covered them were a knife and a small
lantern; while a glance at his injured leg showed me that the splints
had been all but torn off in the exertions of his night’s work.

He was a faithful servant to his masters, whoever they might be; and he
had conceived the design of killing the only horses we had, in order
to prevent the escape of the girl before his comrades could return to
recapture her.

Waiting until the two men in the tent were fast asleep he had dragged
himself, painfully and laboriously, through the mud to the shed, had
shut himself in, and, by the light of the lantern he carried, had
deliberately stabbed one horse after the other, putting on each the
witch’s mark. He knew the superstition about it, of course, and trusted
to that to save him from the risk of discovery. I had seen the slimy
trail he had left in the mud, however, and had thus detected him.

With what dogged effort he had acted and the stoical endurance he had
shown were evidenced by the condition of his wounded leg. The splints
had been torn off, and he must have suffered excruciating agony in the
grating of the fractured bones.

I taxed him with the deed, but he denied it, of course, and swore by
every oath he could think of, Christian and Mahomedan alike, that he
was innocent and had slept soundly the whole night through.

I drew Karasch aside. “You can see for yourself what happened,” I said,
significantly and triumphantly. But his superstition was proof even
against such evidence.

“You do not understand, Burgwan; I do,” he replied, in the same dismal
fanatical tone.

“The thing can be seen as plainly as a mountain in the moonlight,” I
exclaimed, impatiently. “He wants to prevent our getting away until his
companions get here.”

But Karasch only shook his head.

“You can see that he did it, can’t you, man?”

“I can see she used his body to do it. They often do that. He did it in
a dream. His hand; her mind. I’ll question him.”

“And put a ready-made lie into his thoughts,” I exclaimed, angrily.

“It is witch’s work, more than his,” he repeated, stubbornly and
doggedly. I felt I should lose my temper if I stayed longer, and
tossing up my hands in despair at his folly, I gave up talking sense to
him.

I washed off the traces of the blood from my hands, and having got
materials for a breakfast, went away to the hut to try and think what
next to do in view of this fresh disaster.

I don’t think I had ever been more completely cornered than I was
by the position which faced me then. I was thirty miles or so from
anywhere; I did not know the road for even a league from the camp; and
I hadn’t an animal left worth calling a horse. If I attempted to leave
with the girl, we should probably be lost, or break down by the way.
Yet if I stayed where I was, we should have her pursuers back to fetch
her; while, even if they did not come, there was an almost hourly risk
that my own men would break out against her in order to deliver me from
her enchantment.

Whichever way I turned I could see nothing but imminent peril for
her--peril of death indeed; and cudgel my wits as I would, I could see
no turning in the long, straight lane of danger.

I remember stopping midway between the tent and the hut, and setting
down the things I carried, and glancing round at the circle of frowning
hills with a confused and dismaying sense of feebleness. The breeze
of the morning, fresh and invigorating as it was, seemed to grow hot,
stifling, oppressive, until it was positively difficult to breathe
freely. The hills had become suddenly as the walls of a prison,
shutting me in, a helpless, crippled prisoner. Light, freedom, hope,
life were all on the other side of them, but the path was barred
and the way of escape blocked. My nerves were shaken and the mental
perspective warped, for the moment, in the exaggeration of sudden alarm
for the girl.

The sight of her brought me to my senses again. She appeared at the
door of the hut and looking about her saw me and smiled. I must
keep the knowledge of danger from her, of course, so I went down
and pretended to busy myself with my packages while I pulled myself
together.

I picked them up and went on to the hut whistling a strain of the “Star
Spangled Banner,” and trying to appear as if I hadn’t a thought in the
world above breakfast.

“Good-morning, Burgwan,” she said, with a sort of chary patronage and
encouragement.

“Good-morning. I have brought your breakfast. Very homely diet, but the
best we can offer you here.”

“Never mind. What time do we start?” She had a rare knack of finding
awkward questions.

“The guide is not come yet,” I answered, conscious that my pause would
rouse her suspicions.

“But I cannot wait long.”

“That’s true enough.” I spoke the thought aloud, unwittingly.

“What does that mean?” Very sharply asked, this.

“I can’t answer any questions yet. I have to think.”

The reply appeared to offend her, and her eyes flashed as she drew
herself up with a gesture of authority and constraint. She was turning
back into the hut when she caught sight of some stains on my clothes.

“That is--blood?” She paused before the word.

“Yes, it’s blood. I didn’t know it was there.”

She shrank from me for a space against the lintel.

“It’s horse’s blood. We’ve had some trouble in the stables, and I’m
afraid I don’t cut a very pretty figure just now.” I tried to make
light of it in this way; but it was a feeble effort.

“Tell me--at once. The truth, please.” There was eagerness now in her
tone, as well as the usual imperative note.

I hesitated. “I suppose you’d better know it,” I said then. “There has
been foul play in the night, and our horses have been killed. I got
this on me when I was tracing the thing to its source. That’s all--but
it’s bad enough.”

“How many?”

“All but one--and he’s dead lame, I’m afraid.”

“Is this true? or is it an excuse to keep me here?”

I winced. The injustice bit deep. I looked at her with a protest in my
eyes.

“If you’ll put that question plainly, perhaps you’ll see it in its
proper light, and understand how it may sound to me. No, I don’t mean
that. It doesn’t matter. I have told you the truth; that’s all.”

“But it does mean delay?”

“I’m very sorry; but thirty or forty miles make a long march for a lame
horse. I could manage on foot, of course, but----” I left the sentence
unfinished.

She started, and bit her lip as she realised my meaning. To avoid
seeing her distress, and to fill the pause, I dropped one of the tins I
was carrying and stooped to pick it up.

“I have to beg your pardon, Burgwan, for doubting you.”

“That’s no account, I assure you. I couldn’t have helped it myself if
the position had been reversed. The truth does sometimes look strangely
like falsehood.”

“But you don’t seem to understand that I must get away. I must.”

“I do realise it,” I answered, very earnestly, “and mean to find a way,
somehow. I’m not easy to beat, most times.”

“When can we start, then?” I noticed the “we,” and I think it had
something to do with putting me off my guard.

“I shall have to think a bit,” I said.

“It must be soon, Burgwan. What time is it now?”

Without thinking, I pulled out my watch from an inner pocket--a big
gold chronometer on a gold chain--and the moment I caught her quick
eyes on it I saw the mistake, and regretted it.

“Just six o’clock,” I answered, as indifferently as I could.

“That’s a very valuable watch you carry in these lonely hills;” and her
look spoke her thought much more eloquently than her words.

“It’s a very good timekeeper,” I answered at random.

Her intent gaze held me all the while, and I saw gathering in her eyes
something of the suspicion with which she had first heard my name the
previous night.

“How did you get it?”

“Are you not over quick with your suspicions?”

“Am I to fear you--or trust you?”

“If you trust me it will have to be without asking any questions--at
present. You have no reason to fear me; and never will have.”

“You must tell me where you got so valuable a thing--you, a peasant of
the hills?”

“I am not a peasant of the hills.”

“Where did you get it?”

“If I told you, you would scarcely believe me.”

“Where?” she insisted.

“I bought it; that’s all.”

She drew a deep breath and bit her lip.

“I have thought of you as a brave man capable of real nobleness. I have
believed you to be true and honest. If you fail me I have no hope. And
if you mean me harm, for the sake of the living God tell me so.” She
spoke with intense but carefully restrained passion until the last few
words.

“Don’t take it like that,” I replied, firmly and calmly, although moved
to the core by her appeal. “I will tell you something. I am not what
I may have seemed to you. I am no peasant and no brigand, as you seem
to fear. Who and what I am, and why here, I cannot tell you yet; but,
believe this, I will serve you and save you from this trouble. If you
wish it, I will take any oath you like on that. But my word is my word,
and you may trust it.”

She listened intently, marking every word, and when I finished she bent
forward and gazed searchingly right into my eyes. Then she drew a deep,
long breath, as of relief, and smiled.

“Thank God, I feel I can trust you. I will not question you again,
Burgwan.”

“Then the best thing you can do is to show it by getting some
breakfast.”

The change to the commonplace and practical from that moment of
feverish passion was a welcome relief to us both.

“Yes; you are right. I will,” she answered, forcing a smile; and
picking up the things I had laid on the chair, she carried them into
the hut.




CHAPTER IV.

A CONTEST IN WILL POWER.


After that incident there was something of a change in the curious
relations between us. She was just as imperious at times; but less
patronising. She seemed to expect my services less as a return for
payment to be made, or by right of caste and station, than in virtue of
her womanhood and helplessness. Either she now believed entirely in my
good faith, or she was anxious to make me think she did.

I explained to her how I generally contrived to prepare my food, showed
her how to manage the spirit stove, pointed out where the few things
needful were kept, and offered to make the meal ready for her.

“I am not helpless, and can do it myself, thank you,” she said, half
resentfully.

“I didn’t know,” I answered, and soon after left her to it. I went back
to the tent to wash my face and hands and endeavour to get the blood
stains from my clothes. I began to be disquietingly conscious of my
exceedingly ungroomed condition.

The men were eating their breakfasts and talking together with lowered
brow and gloomy faces.

“What are we to do, Burgwan?” asked Karasch, coming over to me
presently.

“There will be no work to-day. I shall remain in camp.”

“Who is to fetch Andreas?” This was the man who had ridden with him on
the previous night and lay out on the hills.

“I can’t spare the horse, now we have only one. One of you must take
food to him on foot, and try to hire or buy some horses in place of the
dead ones.”

“It will not do,” he said, lowering his voice. “I cannot walk so far;
and you can’t trust the others.”

“I can trust Gartski.”

“Not after this morning’s business with the witch-killed beasts.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, Karasch. I proved to you that that
treacherous devil over there stabbed them to prevent us getting away.”

“He has explained that. He had a vision and remembers it now. She
stood over him with a flaming sword, just as she appeared to me, and
compelled him to do it.”

“How a man of your shrewdness can believe such rot passes my
understanding, Karasch. You might be a great baby if I didn’t know you
were a brave and clever man.” But flattery was of no more use than
reproaches.

“You don’t understand these things, Burgwan. We do. You see with her
eyes; we use our own.” The dogged manner and tone alike showed that he
spoke with dead conviction.

“Then the best thing will be for the lot of you to clear out,” I
exclaimed testily.

“You can’t be left alone in her power. I shall stay with you to the
end. You gave me my life when I had lost it fairly, and I’ll save yours
in return.”

“What do you mean?” I asked sharply, as a glint of his intention shot
into my thoughts. Instead of meeting my eyes as usual, he looked down
and shuffled uneasily.

“The spell must be broken and then you’ll see the truth and--and no
harm may come to you after all.”

“What do you mean? Speak out, Karasch, and meet my eyes openly like a
man, as you usually do.”

But this he would not or could not do.

“There is only one way,” he said doggedly. “And it must come to that in
the end. We have talked it over. Your life must be saved.”

“I should have thought you all knew by this time that I can take pretty
good care of that for myself.”

“There is only one way,” he repeated in the same dogged tone.

“And what is that way? Out with it, man, in plain terms.”

“She must die, Burgwan, or you will.”

I thought a moment, and then saw a different line and promptly adopted
it.

“You are too late, Karasch,” I said, as gravely and solemnly as I could
speak.

“No, there is always time within the same moon.”

“No; she has rendered me proof against any knife or bullet for three
days on condition that I defend her. And I’ve sworn that I will die
before anyone shall harm her.”

It was a beautiful bluff. He started back and looked at me in manifest
horror and crossed himself as he muttered a prayer.

“Don’t do that, you hurt me, Karasch,” I said, pretending to shudder.

“Great God of all. And you a Christian, Burgwan.”

His agitation was almost piteous. He turned deathly pale and beads of
perspiration stood on his forehead, as he stared at me horror-struck.
“And I have sworn to save you.” It was just a whisper of dismay and
helplessness, and it showed the struggle which was raging between his
superstition and his fealty to me.

“I’ll release you from your oath to me, if you wish; and you and the
rest can leave as soon as you like.”

“No, by God, no; not if I’m damned forever,” he cried. “I’ll stand
by you, Burgwan, mad blind fool though you’ve been. Curse the witch
and all her infernal arts;” and he was at it again with his vehement
crossing and spitting and prayers.

His devotion moved me deeply. I knew how much the effort must cost him.
He believed that he was jeopardising not his life only, that he was
always ready to risk, but his very soul as well. Rough, coarse, crude,
ignorant, half civilised boor that he was, he had shown a fidelity to
me such as I had never witnessed before. He should have a reward; and
it should be rich enough to surprise him if ever we got out of this
mess; but I could say nothing of it to him then. He would have laughed
to scorn the promise of money in such a case. I accepted his sacrifice
therefore without another word.

“What shall we do about Andreas?” I asked. “Gartski and Petrov had
better go out to him.”

“No. If they go, it will be only to find help and bring others back
here to do what you say must not be done. Andreas must take his chance.”

“You must go somewhere then, and find us horses.”

“If I take my eyes off those two they’ll run away. I must stay to watch
them.”

“But we must have horses and at once,” I urged.

“Tell her to send some here. She can if she chooses.” His belief in her
supernatural powers was complete; but that time it served to turn the
tables with a vengeance. I had no answer.

“It must be as you say. I’ll ask her;” and with that I left the
tent, wishing that the miraculous supply of horses were as easy of
accomplishment as Karasch believed.

There was one that I could have, however, and I deemed it best to make
sure that neither Gartski nor Petrov should have the chance of stealing
it. So I led it over to the cottage to tether it close at hand,
carrying the saddle with me.

Hearing me, the girl came out.

“You have horses, then?” she asked, in a tone of satisfaction.

“I have this one, that’s all;” and I fastened it up to a tree close by
the hut.

“You are looking very serious, Burgwan. Has anything more happened?”

“A little misunderstanding with the men. Nothing more serious than I’ve
had before. Have you breakfasted?”

“Yes. I have yours here;” and she brought out to me coffee and a
steaming dish of food which she had prepared for me with her own dainty
hands. She might have been a witch, indeed, for the cleverness with
which she had concocted a savoury meal from the rough fare at her
disposal.

I was very hungry, and while I ate it with thankfulness and relish she
fed Chris.

“The dog takes to you, readily,” I said.

“Yes. Good Chris,” and he wagged his tail and looked up at her. “He is
another mystery, Burgwan--like that watch;” and she smiled.

“Yes; and in his way quite as reliable.”

“It is not a breed often found--in the hills.”

She was fishing, but I would not see the bait, and answered with a
monosyllable.

“He is very fond of you,” she said.

“He knows me and trusts me, I think.”

“Is that a reproach?”

“It is not for me to reproach you. You don’t know me yet.”

“There are many things I don’t know yet. For one, how I got here to
this hut?”

I smiled. “I carried you,” I answered.

“You dared?” A quick impulsive rebuke in the question.

“I didn’t dare to leave you lying out there in the road when that storm
was coming up.”

“You had no right,” she cried, and went back into the hut.

Chris looked up as she went and ran to the door after her; but returned
and finished his breakfast, and then went in to her.

I had finished mine then, and sat thinking over the position of things
when she came out.

“I was wrong to be angry, Burgwan. Of course, there was nothing else
for you to do.”

“I couldn’t think of anything, at any rate.”

“I ought not to have been so childish as to faint,” she said, with a
smile and a shrug. Then she picked my cup and platter. “Where can I get
water to wash these?”

“You needn’t bother about that. It’s not fit work for you.”

“But I wish to,” she cried, with a little stamp of the foot.

“There is a spring close here, then,” I replied; and taking a pannikin
I fetched the water and sat down again and went on with my thinking.

“Can we start now, Burgwan?” she asked. “I wish to reach the railway
that will carry me to Belgrade.”

“That means thirty miles through a country where I don’t know a yard of
the road;” and I shook my head.

“You always raise difficulties.”

“No; I don’t raise them, I see them. That’s all. I wish I didn’t. It
may come to it at the last--but we had better wait for the guide. He
ought to be here soon now.”

“Don’t the men know the road?”

“We had better wait for the guide.”

“Are not you the leader here?”

“In a way, yes; but not in such a matter. I am thinking all I know to
find the best thing to do.”

“But suppose the others should come first before this guide, what then?”

“What others?”

“The rest of the men who were taking me to Maglai.”

“Oh, you were going to Maglai. How many were there?”

“Six. Four beside the two you captured.”

“How far from here were you when you escaped?” I noticed that she no
longer resented my questions as on the previous night.

“I don’t know. It was about noon, and they called a halt; and having
fed and drunk they lay down and slept, leaving one to watch. But he
fell asleep, too, with the heat, and I stole off. I rode fast for some
hours, and then was going slowly, thinking I was safe from pursuit,
when suddenly the two appeared in the distance and chased me. I let my
horse go where it would, and it carried me here.”

“You had been riding about seven hours or so, then. That means fourteen
at least, without the delay of the storm; and then he’d have to chance
finding them.”

“Whom do you mean by ‘he’?”

I had been calculating roughly how long it would take the man Karasch
had set free to reach his friends and return with them, and unwittingly
had spoken the thought aloud. I pretended not to hear her question.

“You don’t know whether all the men rode after you on the same road, or
spread out in different directions?” I asked.

She made no reply, and when I glanced up I met her eyes bent earnestly
upon me.

“You are concealing something from me. You heard my question, I know,
for I saw you start.”

With the curious feeling that I was at a disadvantage sitting down
below her, I stood up.

“You had better leave the run of this thing to me. I won’t ask any more
questions than I am compelled; and if they bother you, you can turn a
deaf ear to them, as I do when I don’t want to hear yours.”

Signs of rebellion flashed from her eyes, and she made ready to give
battle. She held her head high and squared her shapely shoulders.

“I won’t be dictated to like that, and I won’t remain here on any such
terms.”

“I am not dictating; I’m talking common sense.”

“I won’t submit to it; I will not.” And she stamped her foot. “I will
have an answer to my question. I won’t have things hidden from me. Why
won’t you answer it?”

“Didn’t I tell you I had my deaf ear to it?”

“How dare you try to pass it off with a flippant jest like that? Who
are you to presume to insult me?”

“Do you really think I wish to insult you?” I asked, very quietly.

“What you wish to do I neither know nor care. But it is an insult, as
even the commonest instinct of courtesy would tell you.”

“We rough men of the hills haven’t much to do with courtesy.”

“You are not of the hills, you know that. You told me you were no
peasant. Do you suppose I can’t see that for myself?” I made no reply,
and after a pause she added, “I know why it is you will not answer me.
You think I must be a coward because I am a woman.”

“Is that another of the commonest instincts of courtesy--the average
man’s courtesy, I mean?” I said this with the deliberate intention of
irritating her to keep her away from the matter. But she saw my purpose
instantly.

“Will you answer that question of mine?”

“Let me finish first with mine, and then you ask what you will.”

She paused to think, and then nodded as if in answer to her thoughts.

“I am not a coward to be frightened by bad news, and I have already
guessed the answer to it.”

“Then there can be no need for me to tell it you,” I said.

She waited again, and then looking at me fixedly said, with an air of
deliberate decision: “If you do not tell me, I will not remain here
another minute.”

This was a challenge to a trial of wills; and I took it up at once.

“You are not a prisoner,” I said, and stepped aside ostentatiously as
if to leave the way free for her.

“Can I have that horse there?”

“I’ll saddle him for you. I can lead him down to the ravine to where
your horse lies, and get your side-saddle.”

“Which road do I take to get to the railway?”

“I don’t know, but I can give you a map and a compass.”

“Get them, please.” She had plenty of will, that was certain; but
I couldn’t afford to let her bluff me. I went into the cottage and
rummaged about till I found the compass and the map, and then added a
touch of realism. I took a spare revolver and loaded it, and held it
out to her with some extra ammunition.

“You had better take these as well.” She took them and then drove in
the spur in her turn, by saying in her haughtiest manner:

“You shall be paid for them, Burgwan.”

“You can give the value of them to a charity in Belgrade,” I answered.
We were both angry now. “Are you ready?”

She was pinning her hat, and when I saw that her fingers trembled, I
had hard work to persist. But I held on.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment.

We went out and I untethered the horse, and with Chris in close
attendance, we walked without speaking to the mouth of the ravine,
close to where her horse still lay.

“Will you hold him, while I get the side-saddle?” Our eyes met for a
moment, and I saw that at last she was convinced I was in earnest.

I turned away, feeling bad, and unbuckled the girths from the dead
animal, and then saddled the one she was to ride. I took plenty of
time over the work, too, hoping she would see the madness of what she
proposed to do and give in. But she shewed no sign of doing anything of
the sort; and at last the work was done.

“All is ready,” I said, giving a last look at the bridle. “Can you
mount by yourself, or shall I help you?”

She made no answer, but stood with her head half averted, looking away
down the steep mountain road. She was biting her lips strenuously, and
the fingers which held up her skirt were tightly, almost fiercely,
clenched. Eloquent little proofs of the struggle that was raging
between pride and prudence. But I held my tongue and just waited.

Then she turned to me. She was very pale, but her eyes were flashing.

“I thought you were a man,” she cried, between her set lips. I met her
look steadily without a word. And we stood so for the space of some
seconds; her face the embodiment of hot passionate contemptuousness;
mine as impassive as a stone. “And what a coward you are!”

I stood as though my ears were indeed deaf.

She still hesitated; and the woman who hesitates can be saved as well
as lost.

Then came the last effort of her pride.

“Lead the horse to that stone. I will not soil myself by letting you
help me.”

I led him where she pointed; and she mounted with the ease of a
practised horsewoman. She even gathered up the reins and settled
herself in the saddle; and then waited to look almost yearningly for
some sign from me. I gave none, but held the bridle as if I had been
her groom.

Chris stood looking from one to the other of us as if in deep
perplexity.

“Will you take the dog?” I asked.

Then came the end.

“Do you mean me to go?” It was all I had been waiting for.

“No, not now,” I answered at once; “since you see the folly of it.”

“How dare you? I WILL go now;” and she gripped the reins tightly and
touched the horse with her heel. But he hadn’t much fire in him, and
obeyed my hand on the bridle instead of her heel. I held him with my
left hand and stretched out the other toward her.

“Come; you had better dismount. This folly has gone far enough;” and I
put as much command and authority as possible into my tone.

I shall never forget the look she gave me, nor my surprise when a
second later she put her hand into mine and slipped off the saddle. The
rush of relief was too great for her to simulate further anger.

“How hard you can be. I though you meant it,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t try us both in this way,” I said. “I had to show you
that my will is stronger than yours; and you made the lesson hard.”

“Would you have let me go?” she asked.

“No, certainly not.”

“Oh, I wish I had held out,” she exclaimed, vehemently.

I smiled.

“We call it bluff in the States; and I am an older hand at it than you.
That’s all.”

“The States?” she asked quickly. “What States?”

“United States. I am an American, you see, naturalised, that is; I’m
English by birth.”

“American? English? But I thought....”

Face, eyes, everything eloquent of questioning surprise.

“Yes, I know. You thought all sorts of things except the right one. But
anyway, I’m not quite the coward you thought just now.”

“Don’t.”

“No, I won’t again. Come, let us get back to the cottage. We haven’t
lost after all by this--we have the side-saddle.”

“I don’t know what to think or say,” she cried, in dismay.

“I can understand your purpose. But let us get back, please;” and with
that we went, I leading the horse as before and she walking by my
side, Chris keeping close to her as though in some way he understood
everything.

Again it was a silent walk at first; but this time the motives for
silence were very different.

[Illustration: “I REALLY BELIEVE THE BARONESS THINKS YOU ARE A PEASANT
IN DISGUISE.”                                             _Page 238_ ]




CHAPTER V.

UNWELCOME VISITORS.


That contest of wills, followed by my avowal that I was an American,
marked another very distinct advance toward a better understanding
between us. My companion’s interest was stimulated and her curiosity
piqued; and our relationship was at once placed upon a footing of
personal equality. She made that plain--intentionally, I think--her
momentary chagrin at defeat in the trial of strength between us
overshadowed completely by her sense of relief and reassurance.

Chris was a great help to us just then. He seemed to have settled
it in his thoughts there had been trouble which was now put right,
and he stalked along by her side, thrusting his great nose into her
hand, nestling his head against her, and giving many signs of his
satisfaction. She caressed him gently, and presently, with a half
glance at me, she said, as if to him:

“And are you American, too, Chris? And is your name really Chris?”

“He’s American born, not like his master, and his name is really
Chris,” I replied.

“And have you a strong temper, too, Chris?”

“Like master like dog. He can show his teeth at need,” I said with a
smile. “But he can be a staunch friend--to those who trust him.”

“Does he show them to women?” she asked, turning to flash her eyes upon
me.

“Is that quite fair?”

“You can show yours,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“I’ve seen him hold a man up with a growl when I knew he didn’t mean to
bite. Just as a lesson, you know.”

“I would trust my hand between HIS teeth,” she answered, as she thrust
her fingers into his great mouth. The rascal mouthed them, and fawned
upon her and looked up in her face.

“Ah, he’s kissing it--to congratulate you on having made peace,” I
said drily; and she drew her hand away so heartily that for a moment I
feared I had offended her. But I had not.

“Does HE understand what you call ‘bluff’?” was her next question,
after a pause.

“He’s very much like me in many ways.”

“I can believe that. He is so silent about himself.”

“Like us both in that, perhaps, isn’t he?”

“Is that a reproach or a question?” she retorted, and added, seriously,
“I cannot tell you about myself; but you shall know some day.”

“I am not asking. We’ll leave it unsaid on both sides, shall we--at any
rate for the present--and just take each other on trust?”

“As you will. I have learnt my lesson and shall not question you.”
The reply was given with a mixture of irony, rebellion, and assumed
submissiveness in manner and tone.

“I am glad to find you so ready a pupil. Chris there could tell you
that where there’s a toughish job to handle he finds it best to let me
go my own way.” We had reached the cottage, and she was entering the
door as I said this. She turned quickly, and threw up her head.

“You expect a dog’s obedience, then?”

“From Chris, yes,” and I smiled.

“From me, I mean. You know I mean that.”

“From you I ask nothing except to do what your judgment prompts,
tempered perhaps by your trust in--in Chris.”

“In Chris’s master, you mean. Why don’t you say it?”

“Old Chris would do nothing I didn’t approve; so it’s about the same
thing,” I answered, and led the horse away, tethered him, and having
loosened the girths gave him a feed, and fetched him some water from
the spring. When I returned with it she was standing by the house.

“Can I help you?”

“Not in this, thank you.”

“In what, then? I have nothing to do.”

“I’m afraid I can’t find you anything.”

“Don’t you do any work in the camp, then?”

“Not to-day. You see it’s a kind of holiday.”

“Why?”

“The work here is finished. I’m getting ready to leave. As soon as
Georgev--that’s the guide, you know--gets back, I shall be off.”

“I suppose I am not to ask what the work was?” She asked this with
a smile and a shrug, contriving to convey the impression that while
she was impatiently curious the question had behind it no vestige of
distrust.

“I did not intend to tell you, but if you wish it I will. This is a
prospecting expedition. I’ve been looking to see if any mines could be
opened here. Of course, it’s a sort of secret, you know.”

“Oh, you’re hoping to make money here?” and the glance she gave at my
clothes told me her thought. “You are an engineer?”

“No, I am a prospector. I have done it before in the States.”

“I hope you will be successful. But I am sure you will. You are the
kind of man that does succeed; so masterful, I mean.” We both smiled
at the word. “Yes,” she added, as if in answer to my thought; “I am
judging by what has just occurred, for one thing.”

“I am afraid I seem a bit of a brute.”

“I don’t think so. I--I was very angry when I said what I did. I--I
didn’t mean it; and I’m--I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I know you don’t think it now; but you meant it then; and it
was just what anyone else would have meant and said. It helped us to
understand things better. That’s all. I was very much afraid you meant
to ride off alone, and then ... well, I don’t know about then.”

“I wish I had known your thoughts,” she said, with a sort of half
mischievous regret.

“You mean you would have outplayed me?”

She nodded and smiled, “Yes.”

“Well, please don’t try it again. It might be very dangerous play.”

“I won’t, I promise you,” she said readily, understanding from my
serious tone that I was very much in earnest. “When you use that tone I
have no rebellion left in me. I am like Chris, I suppose, in that.”

Chris himself interrupted us then by growling, and looking round I saw
Karasch coming from the tent.

“Chris hates Karasch,” I told her. “The man struck him once savagely,
and I had all my work to keep the dog from his throat. He never
forgets. You can see now that every hair on his neck is bristling with
anger; and Karasch won’t come near him.”

“He is a fierce looking man,” she said.

“But he will serve me now, faithfully, and Chris must make friends with
him. Will you go into the hut a moment? Come, Chris,” and as she went
away I led the dog to Karasch and made him understand that he was to
regard the man as a friend. It was not easy, for Karasch himself was
afraid; but I stood by while he patted the dog’s head, and I made Chris
lick his hand. Then I sent him back to the hut.

“Now, Karasch, what is it?” I asked.

“The devil is it, Burgwan. I slept and Petrov has gone.”

It was ugly news, and made me grave.

“So you couldn’t even keep watch, for all your big words,” I said
angrily.

“It has never chanced so before,” he replied sullenly; and his glance
across toward the cottage told me the thought behind the words.

“If you were to cut your finger I suppose you’d set it down to the same
cause just now. You have served me an ill turn. You can send Gartski to
find him, the sooner the better.”

“You are mad, Burgwan.”

“Mad to have trusted to your keeping awake, perhaps. Not in this. If
one has got away, where’s the use of keeping the other? When we had
both safe, it was well; but two can do no more harm than one away; and
we needn’t be bothered by keeping watch over a traitor. I’ll speak to
him.”

“Come here, Gartski.” He rose sheepishly and crossed to me. “How long
has Petrov been gone, and where has he gone?”

“I was asleep, and know nothing,” he lied glibly.

“Yesterday, when the trouble was here, you took my side; now you are
against me, and want to go.”

“I am not against you,” he began, with much gesticulation.

“Don’t lie. I have means of knowing everything in your thoughts.”

He shrank back a pace and trembled, and crossed himself.

“You know what I mean, I see,” I said. It was no good to have a
reputation for witchcraft and not make use of it. “If you lie to me
now,” I went on, looking into his eyes with as fierce an expression as
I could assume, “you will not outlive the present moon. Tell the truth,
and no harm will come to you.” Glancing at my hand I saw I had broken
the skin in tending the horse, and I smeared a little circle of blood
on the tent post close by. “If that dries before you speak, it will be
too late, Gartski,” I said, solemnly.

It seemed to be a very reliable card to play, this superstition of
theirs. He looked at the little circle in horror, his face went ashen
white and he trembled violently.

“We meant nothing against you, Burgwan; only against the witch,” he
mumbled.

“It is drying fast, Gartski. Beware.”

“Petrov has gone to get help to deal with her.”

“To murder her, you mean?”

“It is no murder. To kill her for your sake, I swear.”

“Where has he gone?”

“To the priest at Lalwor--the hill village.”

“How far is that, and in which direction?”

“Four leagues up the hills to the south.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Less than an hour.”

“Come;” and I put my hand on his shoulders, and led him out of the
tent. “I have no use for spies and traitors here. You can go after him.
Get away, or I’ll set the dog on you;” and with that I shoved him from
me--with a parting kick to which the rage I felt gave additional force.
He limped a few paces and then turned and looked back at me. “Go,”
I thundered, making a step toward him, and then he ran in a limping
fashion comical enough to have drawn a smile had the position been less
grave.

I had frightened enough of the truth out of him to show me that no
ill results could follow for a few hours. It would take Petrov some
three hours to reach the hill village; some time would be needed to get
together a posse, and I felt that I might safely wait an hour or two
longer in the hope that Georgev would arrive.

But it was clear now that we might have to start before he arrived, so
I questioned Karasch as to his knowledge of the country which we should
have to cross. Somewhat to my dismay he declared he knew nothing of it.

I returned to the hut then and found the “witch” studying the map.

“I was going to ask you for that,” I said.

“Can we start?”

“Not yet; I am still waiting for the guide and the horses he may have
with him; but I want to make out our way.”

Instead of giving it to me she clasped her hands over it as it lay on
her lap.

“I want to ask you a favour.” Things were changing indeed.

“Well?”

“Won’t you tell me what all this means? You have had more words with
your men. I know it is about me. Won’t you tell me?”

“They are a set of fools; and they are all gone now, except the big
fellow, Karasch, whose arm is hurt--broken, in fact.”

“Of course, it is on my account, and, of course, also it means danger
of some kind. I am not afraid to know it with--with Chris and--and you
to protect me.”

“I have quarrelled with the men--have just kicked one of them out of
the camp, in fact. That’s all.”

She sighed and lifted her hands.

“Can’t you see that this uncertainty is worse to bear than any
knowledge could be, however bad?” She was strangely gentle now.

“You needn’t exaggerate things because you don’t know them.”

“Here is the map. You try me very much. Tell me, please,” she urged as
I took the map. I fingered it thoughtfully.

“You must not frighten yourself.”

“I am not frightened--except that I think there must be some terrifying
news you keep back, fearing to frighten me. You put a great strain on
my nerves.”

“I had not thought of that, and there is no need for it. I will tell
you enough to show you that. I have had trouble with the men; and
it is about you. They are only under me because I hired them to do
certain work. Well, that prisoner whom I shot in the leg yesterday got
at them with a tale that you were a prisoner of such importance that
a considerable sum of money was to be paid for your safe delivery at
Maglai; and they had a fancy to help in earning it. We quarrelled about
it, and they’ve left the camp.”

“Who do they say I am?”

“They do not know, and could not tell me; of course; and I myself do
not even know how to address you. You must have seen this--whether
madame or mademoiselle even?”

“You put your question adroitly, Burgwan. Are you Burgwan, really? But
you can’t be, of course. You are American.”

“It is the name I have here; and I did not know how pleasant a sound it
had until I heard you speak it. I would rather you called me by that
name than any other. And you?”

She had her hands in her lap and kept her eyes bent down as she slowly
clasped and unclasped her white fingers. Then she lifted her face and
looked at me with a slow, hesitating smile.

“You might call me--Barinschja.”

“That is Russian for an unmarried woman, isn’t it?”

“Did you think I was married?” The smile in her grey eyes was
unmistakably brighter.

“I did not think you were Russian.”

“I am not. I am a Serb.”

“Then what we have to do is to get you to Belgrade as soon as possible,
Barinschja,” and I turned to the map.

“No. I cannot be Barinschja to you. I will be mademoiselle.”

“I thank you.” I understand enough Russian to appreciate the
difference. Barinschja is from inferior to superior; mademoiselle from
equal to equal. “Then it shall be mademoiselle. Now for the map.”

“No, not yet. You have forgotten something. You have spoken of the man
you wounded yesterday, but not of the one you fought and bound. It is
he who has gone free, isn’t it, to fetch his comrades?”

“Yes, but I did not mean to tell you. How did you guess?”

“From what you said before you--before we fetched that side-saddle.”
She smiled as she changed the phrase. “When you would not answer the
question, which I tried to force you to answer.”

“Mademoiselle is very quick-witted.”

“And Burgwan can be very obstinate,” she retorted; and I smiled in my
turn.

“The fellow was set free by my men, but I do not think he can get back
in time to do any harm.”

“And why have your men deserted you?”

“They were not bound to remain with me.”

“Then the desertion had nothing to do with me?”

“Yes, I told you we quarrelled about you. But I wish to see our course;
will you let me study the map?”

“Yes, if you will assure me that their desertion bodes no danger.”

“Is Burgwan or Mademoiselle in charge of things here?”

“Will Burgwan answer Mademoiselle’s question? Why did those men say
there was a price on my head?”

“It was all nonsense, of course.”

“But I wish to know. I have a right to know.”

“They said you had done something or other, and that they were to be
paid handsomely for getting you to Maglai.”

“Do you know what they said?”

“Yes--that you had committed some crime.”

“Some crime!” she cried, in quite indignant astonishment. Then she
laughed scornfully. “Do you believe it?”

“No. If I did, it would make no difference.”

“A criminal! With a price on my head! What can it mean?” This was more
to herself than to me, so I plunged into a study of the map, and in a
few minutes had made out a part of the route we should have to go.

“I am no criminal, Burgwan,” she said, breaking in suddenly on my study
of the map.

“I didn’t need to be told. This is the way we shall have to go at
first”; and I drew her attention to the map.

While we were examining it, Chris grew restless, and at length got up
and stood sniffing the air and the ground and listening.

“What is it, Chris, old dog?”

He came and nosed my hand and then went a few yards off and pointing
towards the ravine, growled.

“Someone is about,” I said, as I folded up the map and put it in my
pocket. “Will you go into the hut, Mademoiselle? It may be the guide
Georgev--or it may not; and may mean trouble of some sort. Take Chris
with you and shut the door. He’ll answer for anyone who tries to bother
you. Chris, inside; on guard, good dog.”

He understood and obeyed at once, although his eyes said he would
rather stay with me.

I strolled half way to the tent and called to Karasch, who came out.

“I think someone is coming up the ravine, Karasch. It may be Georgev,
or some of the men in search of Mademoiselle yonder. You mean to stand
by me?”

“On my oath, yes. But if they are in search of her, you’d better give
her to them, Burgwan.”

“Stop that fool talk, and leave everything to me; and do exactly as I
tell you from start to finish.”

Then I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs, and I lit a cigar and sat down
to wait for the riders. There were three of them, and the first glance
showed me Georgev was not among them. I sat smoking until they rode up,
then I rose slowly.

“Are you the new men hired by the guide, Georgev?” I asked.

“No,” answered one who appeared to be the leader. “Is there a man named
Karasch here?”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“An answer to my question. And I mean to have it. This is the place,
sure enough,” he said, turning to his companions. “The tent and the
hut;” and he nodded toward each. “You’re Karasch, by your description,”
he said to Karasch. “Where’s the prisoner?”

“I’m in charge here. Put your questions to me,” I broke in, brusquely.

Resenting my tone, he looked at me more sharply than before, and then
laughed.

“I know you. You must be the man who rescued our prisoner yesterday and
shot Drago. You’ll answer for that, I promise you; but I don’t want any
trouble. Your other men are on our side, you know.”

“The man I shot lies in the tent there with a broken leg. The prisoner
you seek is in the cottage.”

“That’s better,” he cried, with a sneering laugh. “You know when you’re
beaten, I see.”

I shrugged my shoulders as if indifferent.

“We’re only two here, and Karasch has a broken arm. So you’re not
likely to have much trouble.”

“Where are the others?” he asked, suspiciously, as if half fearing an
ambush. “There were five of you.”

“One, Andreas, lies out on the hills somewhere, hurt riding after your
comrade in the night. Petrov and Gartski have gone to Lalwor, the hill
village yonder, seeking help to take the prisoner.”

“You’ll have to come with us.”

“That’s as it may be. But--we’ve no horses. Your fool of a man killed
ours last night, so that we shouldn’t get away until you returned. But
he didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Nor did you, I expect. We came upon our comrade on the hills by chance
this morning, too ill even to put a leg across a horse. It’s all that
devil’s work. He wishes he’d had no hand in the black business, I can
tell you. And so will you.”

“You can take her as soon as you like--the sooner the better. She’s
caused enough trouble here,” I answered, and putting my cigar between
my lips I sat down again and lolled back as if in lazy indifference.

But my indifference was not even skin deep. My object was to make them
confident that there was no sort of resistance to be expected, and
every nerve and sense in me was on the alert. I was making a kind of
corner in risks just then, and should need all my wits to avoid being
squeezed.

I was already fully resolved to use the three horses thus fortunately
brought within my reach, and my first step was to get the present
riders off their backs. The second would be to keep them off; and the
third to put Mademoiselle, myself, and Karasch in their places.

Karasch had said that the “witch” could bring horses our way if she
pleased; and when I looked his way and saw his eyes glance meaningly
from me to the horses, I was half persuaded that he connected their
presence with some supernatural agency.

The three men spoke together a moment and then the leader dismounted,
handed the reins of his horse to one of the others, and came toward me.

“I daresay you mean to act all right and give up the prisoner,” he
said, bluntly; “but while we stay here I’m going to make sure you can’t
play any trick upon us by tying your hands behind you. Stand up.”

As he spoke he signed to the other two, who levelled their guns point
blank at me.

It was a wholly unexpected turn and seemed to spell crisis. Not seeing
for the moment what to do, I made no effort to rise, and he repeated
his command.

“Get up,” he cried this time with an oath. “We’ve no time to waste over
you.”




CHAPTER VI.

A FIGHT FOR THE HORSES.


I met the man’s bullying look and glanced from him along the barrels of
the guns which his companions held pointed at me; and then sat up.

“I don’t see the necessity for it,” I said, quietly.

“No, but I see it, and mean to do it. Get up at once, or you may find
it difficult ever to rise again,” he said, savagely.

I scrambled up leisurely, dropping my hand into the pocket where I had
my revolver, and my fingers closed on it as I held it ready to shoot
without drawing it out.

One of the educational advantages of life in a rough mining camp in the
West is the use of a revolver from the safe concealment of a pocket.
This man didn’t appear to understand the trick. I didn’t want his blood
on my hands; but I wasn’t going to let him tie me up as he proposed.

“Turn round,” he ordered.

“Wait a moment,” I said, quite coolly. “If you do this, how am I to
know you’ll set me free again when you go?”

“Do as I tell you,” he cried savagely with another oath.

“No, by God, no.”

This was from Karasch, very loudly and angrily spoken, and the man
turned from me to him.

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. This was my doing from the first. I set your man free to
go and find you and bring you here; but this shan’t be done.”

The interruption was very timely, and I took advantage by it to edge
away until I was sheltered from the guns by the leader’s body.

“What Karasch says is right enough. But you need not say any more,
Karasch. There won’t be any more talk about binding me or anyone else.”

“By the Cross, but there will!” cried the leader fiercely, and was
turning to give an order to his companions when I gripped him by the
shoulder and held him.

“Don’t move. You’re just in the line between those two guns and me,
and I can talk all the more comfortably while you stay there.” Karasch
laughed, and the man tried in vain to wriggle out of my grip. “I’m
covering you all the time with my revolver, and if you get away I shall
shoot. You’ve been a deal nearer death all the while than you thought,”
and I showed the ugly little muzzle above the edge of my pocket.

The argument carried conviction. He ceased to struggle, and changed
colour.

“Tell those men of yours to throw their guns on the ground. They might
go off by accident, and I’m not taking that kind of risk any longer.”

He hesitated, and I showed him a bit more of my pocket argument.

“I’m accustomed to be obeyed pretty quickly. Ask Karasch there,” I
said, drily. Karasch laughed again and swore.

The leader shouted the command over his shoulder, and after some demur
it was obeyed.

“Go and pick the guns up, Karasch, and get this man’s from his horse,
and bring them to the tent,” I said, and waited while he fetched them.

Then I took my hand from the leader’s shoulder and stepped back.

“Now we shall all breathe a little more freely. You see the kind of
soft fool you’ve got to deal with in me now, and you won’t make any
more mistakes of this kind. There are two ways of doing what you’ve
come to do--the rough and the smooth. You’ve tried the rough and have
run up against a snag. Now we’ll go to the tent and talk over the
smooth way.”

“Give us our prisoner, and we’ll go.”

“But Karasch and I wish to go with you, and I want to explain to you
the little difficulty your man has put in the way. Come.”

“I don’t want to go there.”

“If you’d rather go straight to hell, you can,” I exclaimed, fiercely.
“Choose, and be quick about it.”

“I’ll come,” he said, sullenly.

“You can tell your men there we’re going to talk, and that they may as
well bait their horses. We may be some time.”

He was getting to be quite an apt pupil. He turned and gave the order,
and the two men stepped from their saddles and growled to him to make
haste.

I led him round the tent to the shed where the three dead horses lay.

“Last night your man killed them. You see, there are three of them.”

“Well?”

“Well, there are three dead ones here, killed by your man, and there
are three live ones out there on which you have just ridden up.”

“You don’t mean--what do you mean?” he asked. He was beginning to
understand.

“How do you propose to make up that loss to me?”

He laughed uncomfortably. “You’re a cool hand,” he said.

“I’m cool enough just now,” I returned drily; “and none the safer on
that account, perhaps, to fool with. How are you going to replace those
three horses?”

“Speak out, and to hell with you,” he growled.

“I propose an exchange, that’s all. You can have these, and I’ll take
yours and cry quits.”

His face was a study; rage battling with the conviction of helplessness
as he glared at me.

“You are three to two, I know; but we’re well armed, and you have
nothing but your knives. I could put a bullet into you at this minute
just as easily, and much more surely than your men could have shot me a
while since.”

He started, and I saw his hand go stealing to his sash.

“I shouldn’t draw it if I were you,” I said quietly.

He took the advice and stood thinking in sore perplexity.

Then I made my first mistake.

“I’ll treat you fairly. I shall pay you for the horses, and will send
you a couple of hundred gulden for each of them, good Austrian money.”

His eyes lighted; and I read it for a sign of avarice.

“Six hundred gulden,” he said slowly and with gusto. “Six hundred
gulden. It is a large sum of money; but we should be without horses;”
and he looked at me cunningly.

“I’ll make it a thousand.”

“Easy to promise. As easy a thousand as ten.”

“What I promise I can do.”

“May the Stone of the Sepulchre crush me if I understand,” he exclaimed
after a pause.

“It may help you to decide if I remind you I can take the horses
without even promising a single gulden.”

“And about the prisoner?”

“She goes with me.”

“Why?”

“Because she prefers to.”

“So that we lose the payment for her as well as our horses.”

“How much were you to be paid?”

He paused as if in doubt how much to ask.

“Five hundred gulden each. There are six of us.” He watched me closely
as he named the amount.

“Three thousand gulden! She must be a prisoner of importance. Who is
she?”

“It’s a long road to Maglai and a difficult.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Your man told mine she was a witch.”
He laughed.

“So we were told. Any tale was good enough to listen to at that price.
We can’t talk so glibly about hundreds and thousands of gulden as you
can.”

“Then YOU don’t think she is a witch?”

“I believe what I’m paid to believe--if the pay is high enough. And no
one would pay such a sum for a mere witch.”

“I’ll pay you the three thousand gulden and the six hundred as well, if
you let me have the horses quietly, and tell Karasch what you told me,
that the prisoner is no witch.”

He laughed again, and with sudden change to earnest he shot a sharp
look at me and asked:

“How will you pay? Who are you to have such a sum?”

“No matter who I am. I will send you the money to any place and in any
way you name.”

“Horses are horses, and I know who is to pay for the prisoner when we
get to Maglai.”

“And I’ll increase the price four thousand gulden if you give me the
name of the man who has employed you.”

“I’d like to serve you, if you really had money to throw away like
that.”

“I’m paying to avoid trouble and to gain information; but I mean to
have the horses in any case. You can choose.”

He paused to think again.

“You must be very rich. If I thought you’d pay, I’d do it.”

“You can take my word.”

“You don’t look it,” he said doubtingly, and with an accent of regret.

“I’m through with the talk. Choose,” I answered, shortly.

“I’m ready to risk it, but I must speak to the others.”

“That’s right enough. You can do that; but you must bring the horses up
to the side of the tent first.”

I let him go in front of me round the tent, and he called to his
companions to lead the horses over to us. Karasch met them half way,
and he and I tethered them while the three men held a long and animated
discussion.

I told Karasch what had passed, emphasising what the leader had said
about the prisoner being no witch.

“But you said she had put a charm over your life, Burgwan.”

“Because I saw you were set on killing her. She is no witch, but a
prisoner of great importance. They are to have three thousand gulden
for taking her to Maglai.”

“Three thousand gulden!” he cried, his eyes wide at the thought of such
a sum. To him it was a fortune.

“Would anyone pay so much for a witch, Karasch?”

He shook his head.

“The man may be lying.”

I called to him, and he came and confirmed what he had said to me so
stoutly that Karasch was convinced.

“Are you agreed yet?”

“There would be no difficulty if we were sure of you. Can he pay such
a sum as four thousand florins?” he asked Karasch, nodding his head
toward me.

“It is a big fortune,” was the answer, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“But what he promises he always does.”

Not a very convincing banker’s reference that at the best; and the
leader shook his head.

“That’s the point. It’s only a promise,” he said, slowly, with a shake
of the head. “Have you got any of it here to give us now?” The question
was asked casually enough, as if it were no more than the occasion
warranted; but I saw more than that in it.

“I’ve told you I’d pay you afterwards. That’s the last word.”

“I’ll try what I can do then;” and with that he went back to his
companions, and the earnest conference was resumed.

“I don’t trust him,” said Karasch.

“Let us get away quietly with the horses, and we’ll trust to ourselves,
Karasch,” said I.

“Can you pay such a sum as he named?”

“Yes, ten times the amount, Karasch; and ten times that again if
necessary.”

“Great Lord of the Living!” he exclaimed. “And yet you come here to the
hills in this way!”

The three men had now apparently ended their conference, and the leader
came across to me.

“Two of us are agreed,” he said, as he reached me, “but one will not
without proof. Let me see our comrade whom you shot. He must have a
voice in it too.”

“He is in the tent here,” I answered. We entered it, and he went and
knelt by the wounded man.

I did not trust him any more than did Karasch, and, although I noticed
nothing to rouse my suspicions, I watched the two closely, and kept my
hand on the revolver in my pocket, and told Karasch to watch the two
outside.

So far all had gone as well as I could have wished. We had the horses
under our hands, and the men were divided so that we could deal with
them in turn should they attempt to put up a fight.

Such a thing seemed far from their thoughts, moreover. From the
snatches of talk I heard, the leader appeared to be arguing with his
comrade, urging him to agree, and answering the objections which he
raised. Words began to run high between them presently, and at length
the leader cursed the other volubly for a fool and got up.

“I can do nothing with this pig,” he exclaimed angrily to me.

“You must settle your own matters, and be quick about it,” I returned
sharply.

I was getting very anxious now on account of mademoiselle. She had been
shut up in the cottage all the time, and knowing nothing of what was
passing between the men and me it was easy to guess the effect which so
trying a suspense would have upon her.

“What can I do? He vows that if I yield to you he will denounce me at
Belgrade--idiot, pig, and fool that he is,” he cried furiously, pacing
the floor and throwing his hands about. “We are equally divided now,
two to two.”

“The money I shall pay would be a fortune for the two who help me. The
others would have no part in earning it, and no right to share it. Two
thousand gulden, you know.”

He had passed me, and at the words turned and stood looking at me with
an expression of consummate cunning.

“You are the devil to tempt a man,” he muttered.

“Give me your help in this, and I’ll make your share three thousand,” I
said, in a low tone.

“Three thousand gulden,” he murmured under his breath. “Three thousand
gulden for myself.”

“And you shall have the horse we have and come with us as guide to
where we wish to go. You know the country?”

“Every yard of it. Three thousand gulden!” He murmured it almost
caressingly, like a man dazed at the prospect of such riches. “I’ll do
it,” he exclaimed, and threw up his hand. “You’ll swear on the cross to
pay me?”

He made a couple of steps toward me as he spoke, and I stepped back,
not wishing him to come too close.

“Now,” he cried, and sent up a great shout.

There was a guttural sound behind me, and the next instant I felt the
burning sting of steel in my flesh as the wounded man thrust a knife
into my leg with a force and suddenness that made me stagger; a clutch
on my coat followed, which upset my balance and drew me back all
a-sprawl across him.

Only by the narrowest chance did I escape death then--the chance that
in falling I so hampered the man that he could not deliver the second
thrust for which he had already lifted his knife. He struck at me, but
missed his aim. The blade pierced my coat only, and, mercifully, I was
unhurt. I was out of his reach before he could strike again, and with a
heavy kick I put his arm out of action and sent the knife flying across
the tent while I shouted for Karasch.

It was all the work of an instant, and I was barely on my legs before
the leader rushed at me. My fingers were still closed on my revolver
and I fired, but in the confusion missed him, and we grappled one
another in grim earnest.

He was a more powerful man than I, and although I strove with all my
strength and used every trick of the wrestling ring that I knew, I
could not shake him off. He knew I was losing blood from the wound in
my leg; and he clung to me, pinning my arms to my side, and waiting for
my strength to give out, as assuredly it must.

For some minute or two matters were thus; his arms wrapped round me
with the force of iron clamps, fixing mine to my sides; his muscular
body pressed, straining against mine, and our faces so close that I
could feel his breath on me as it came through his dilated nostrils.

Then chance was my friend once more. As I writhed and staggered in my
desperate efforts to shake off his terrible grip, and we tossed and
swayed in that grim, wild struggle, he caught his foot and down we went
crash to the ground, he undermost. His grip relaxed for the instant,
and with a frantic effort I thrust myself free from him, and scrambling
up jumped out of his reach.

In a second I had the drop on him; and when he regained his feet and
faced me with a heavy club he had picked up, he was looking down the
barrel that meant death.

If I hadn’t been a chicken-hearted fool I should have shot him down
on the spot; but instead I offered him his life; and then, as if in
contempt of my weakness, Fortune deserted me.

“Throw your hands up, or I’ll put a bullet into you,” I cried.

He stood a second as if weighing the chances, and then from outside
came the noise of trouble. The crash of breaking wood, a cry from the
girl, the savage growl of Chris, and an angry shout in Karasch’s deep
voice.

It was almost the last thing I knew of that fight.

Maddened by the sounds I sprang to rush from the tent, when the wounded
man, resourceful daredevil as he was, made his last effort and flung
his rug right at my face.

The last thing I saw was the leader springing toward me with his
uplifted club; I fired at him; and the same moment a blow on the head
finished the fight, and I went down stunned and senseless.




CHAPTER VII.

ESCAPE.


My first conscious sensation after the blow felled me was as singular
as it was unpleasant. I seemed to be nothing but one huge head on which
a hundred invisible smiths were hammering with quick, rhythmic blows,
each of which gave me such excruciating pain that I yearned to cry out
to the impish torturers to cease, but was tongue-tied and helpless.

After a time the throbbing sensation decreased in violence; but while
the sharpness of the pain of each throb was less, it lasted longer,
producing a deadening sickening ache, which was equally intolerable.

Next I felt something touch my hand with a curiously restless movement.
The thing was sometimes cold and damp, and at others warm and clinging,
with a touch now and then of roughness. I tried to draw my hand away,
but found it heavier than the heaviest metal, so that I could not stir
even a finger. I shrank from the thing and shuddered; it filled me with
a sense of uncanny terror; and it appeared to be many long hours to me
before I found that it was Chris, nosing and licking me and rubbing his
head against my hand.

I can recall to this day the rush of relief which this discovery
produced. If Chris was by my side, all must be well. Just that one
vague thought, without any other conscious connection, followed by a
sensation of calm peaceful comfort.

I think I passed from semi-insensibility then into sleep, for when I
became conscious again, I was much better. I was no longer all head; I
could move my hand to touch Chris, who still kept his watch over me;
and I heard his little whimper of pleasure at my caress, as he took my
fingers in his great mouth to mumble them, as his manner was when very
demonstrative of his affection.

But I was content to lie quite still and soon afterwards another and
very different set of sensations were started.

Someone came to my side, a fairy touch smoothed the pillow under my
head, a gentle, cool hand was laid on my burning forehead, deft, quick
fingers light as gossamer removed the bandage on my head and bathed it
with water of deliciously refreshing coldness.

I heard a pitying sigh from tremulous lips as the someone bent over me;
I caught whispered words. “It was for me;” and just when I was striving
to open my eyes, the lips were pressed swiftly and gently to my brow.

It did more to soothe me, that one swift, gentle touch, than all the
waters of all the coldest rivers in the world could have done; and
although I felt like a guilty hypocrite, I kept my eyes closed and my
limbs still in eager hope that another dose of the same elixir might be
administered.

But at the moment I felt the deft fingers start and tremble; the
bathing recommenced a little more hurriedly; and Chris growled.

“Hush, Chris, good dog,” whispered Mademoiselle. “It’s only Karasch.
Dear old dog,” and a hand left my head to pat him, and in patting him,
the fingers touched mine and then lifted my hand with ever so gentle a
movement higher on to the bed.

A heavier tread approached.

“Is he better?” It was Karasch’s gruff voice reduced to a whisper.

“I have been bathing his head,” was the reply.

I could have laughed in sheer ecstasy at the sweet remembrance of part
of that treatment. And she called it “bathing.” But I did better than
laugh. I moved slightly and sighed. I must not show full consciousness
too soon after that “bathing.”

“He moved then,” she said, with a start, in a tone of pleasure, and I
felt her bend hurriedly over me again in the pause that followed.

Karasch broke the silence.

“It is not safe for you to stay any longer,” he said. “I came to tell
you.”

The words opened the floodgates of my memory to all that had occurred.
I had forgotten everything; but in a moment I understood.

“I told you I should not leave him, Karasch.”

“He would wish it, I know. Your safety comes first with him.”

“Come where we can speak without fear of disturbing him,” was the
reply; and then I was left alone with Chris.

[Illustration: “PUT THOSE GUNS DOWN!”

                          _Page 348_]

I opened my eyes and looked about me, remembering things. I was in
the tent close to where I had fallen and they had brought the bed from
the cottage and placed me on it. I looked about for the wounded man who
had been the cause of my undoing, but he was not there. Everything else
was as it had been before the trouble; and I wondered what had happened.

“Good Chris, old dog,” I said, putting out my hand to pat him. He
barked, not very loudly, but the sound jarred my head with such a spasm
of pain that I hushed him; and as I was doing so, Mademoiselle and
Karasch came hurrying back.

“You are better, Burgwan?” she asked.

“What does it all mean?” I asked. “I remember I had a crack on the
head.” I lifted my head, though it took all I knew not to wince at the
pain it cost me, and put my hand to it.

“We will tell you everything presently. You mustn’t talk yet. You are
not strong enough.”

“Tell me now. I am all right;” but I was glad to yield to her hand and
lay my head down again. “Where are those men?”

“All is well. You may be perfectly at ease,” she said, soothingly.

“What time is it?”

“It is afternoon.”

“The same day?”

“Yes, the same day. You have been unconscious from that blow on the
head. I am so glad you are better. But you must sleep.”

I looked across at Karasch, who was staring at me with trouble in his
eyes.

“Did we keep the horses?” I asked him; but Mademoiselle replied.

“Yes. All is well. You can rest in perfect safety.”

Karasch started to say something, but she checked him with a glance and
a gesture.

“Any news of Petrov or Gartski?” I asked him; and again she gave the
answer for him.

“They will give us no trouble now, none at all,” she said, with gentle
firmness. “You can rest quite assured.”

Again Karasch wanted to speak and again she stopped him just as before
with a glance and a quick gesture. I understood then.

“I want to speak to Karasch alone,” I said.

“No, you must not speak to him yet. There will be plenty of time when
you are better. Go away, Karasch; you disturb Burgwan and excite him.”

He lingered in hesitation and looked at me; and she repeated her words
dismissing him.

“Yes go, Karasch, and saddle the horses. Three of them; and put
together enough food for three of us for a couple of days. And come and
report the moment you are ready.”

“Burgwan! You are mad,” cried Mademoiselle.

“No, I am just beginning to be sane again. Go, Karasch;” and without
any more he left the tent.

“You must not attempt such folly. I will not go.”

“You’ll find it both lonely and unsafe alone here then.” She smiled at
that, but tried to frown.

“That is just like you. But you shall not take this risk. You are not
fit to move from where you are.”

“Fit or unfit, I’m going. I read Karasch’s meaning in his looks when
you wouldn’t let him put it in words.”

“Don’t attempt this, Burgwan. Please, please don’t,” she cried with
such sweet solicitude for me and such complete indifference to her own
danger that I could not but be deeply moved.

“What would happen if Petrov or Gartski got back with a crowd? I’m not
strong enough just yet to do any more fighting, but I am strong enough
to run away. And run away I’m going to.”

“It may kill you,” she murmured, despondently.

“Not a bit of it. I am getting stronger every moment. See, I can sit
up;” and I sat up and tried to smile as if I enjoyed it, although my
head seemed almost to split in two with the effort. I can’t have been
very successful, for she winced and flinched as though she herself were
in suffering.

“You need rest and sleep--you must have it.”

“I can sleep in the saddle. I’m an old hand at that.”

“But the jolting--oh, no, no, you shall not.”

“The jolting won’t hurt me. I can shake my head any old way now.” I
shook it, and she and the tent and the bed, the earth itself seemed to
come tumbling all about me in a bewildering rush of throbbing pain.

“You nearly fainted then,” she cried. And I suppose I did, for her
voice sounded far off and her sorrow-filled face and eyes were looking
at me through a hazy film of distance. But I pulled myself together.

“I’m a bit weak, of course, but fit enough to ride.”

“Burgwan! You are going to do this madness for me.”

“No, no,” I said, my head clearing again. “I am just running away
because I’m afraid of what may happen to me if I stay until Petrov and
the other fools get here.”

“Let me go by myself then.”

“And desert me?” She lifted her hands with a glance of protest.

“You make things so difficult,” she cried; then with a change as a new
thought occurred to her, she added: “Beside, there is another reason
for you not to come with me. You are so weak we should not be able to
ride fast enough. You must see that.”

“You fear I should hamper your escape?”

“Yes,” she answered stoutly, although her eyes were contradicting her
words and she dropped them before my look. “You are not strong enough.”

I affected to believe the words and not the eyes.

“I give in. You must go alone then.”

“I am not afraid to stay.”

“And face the brutes who would come here? Do you know why they are
coming?”

“Yes. Karasch has told me all--his own belief about me, and that of the
others.”

“You are brave, Mademoiselle.”

The words were simple enough in themselves, but I think she read in
them something of what was in my thoughts. She kept her head bent down
and her interlocked fingers worked nervously. Then she looked up and
smiled.

“You know the risk you would run; why would you do it?” I asked.

She threw off the more earnest feeling with a shrug of the shoulders.
“I don’t know that there would be any risk.”

I took this as her way of avoiding the channel into which we were
drifting. I smiled.

“You would be so helpless, too, alone here,” I said.

“Alone?” catching at the word.

“Yes alone. I am afraid to stay and am going in any case; if not with
you, to hamper you, then by a different road.”

Her eyes clouded and she gave a little nervous start. “I am punished;
but I--I didn’t mean that,” she said very slowly.

“I know. If I had not seen your real motive I might have been content
to stay. Nothing would have mattered then.”

“Burgwan!” Quick protest and some dismay were in her tone; and the
colour rushed to her cheeks. “I will go and see if Karasch is ready,”
she added, and hurried away.

Had I said too much and offended her? I sat looking after her some
moments, in somewhat anxious doubts and fears, and yet conscious of a
strange feeling of exhilaration.

Then with a sigh of perplexed discontent I threw back the rug, rolled
off the bed, and got on my feet. I was abominably weak. My brain swam
with every movement I made, so that the place whirled about me until
I must have nearly fainted. My leg was stiff and painful where that
treacherous brute had run his knife into me. I remember looking at
the bed with a sort of feverish longing to get back on to it almost
impossible to resist as I clung to the tent pole to steady myself and
let my head clear.

“It’s got to be done, Chris, old man,” I said to the old dog, who was
standing by me; and after a struggle resolution lent me strength, and
I ventured at length to do without the support of the pole and began
to limp slowly and painfully up and down. If there had been no one but
myself to think about I should have given in and just lain down again
to let happen what might.

But the thought of Mademoiselle’s danger was tonic enough to keep me
going; and when I heard Karasch and her outside, I managed to crawl to
the opening of the tent to meet them.

“We are ready, you see, Chris and I,” I said.

Mademoiselle said nothing, but the look in her eyes was full of sweet
sympathy and deep anxiety.

“I’m afraid I don’t look very fit,” I murmured. I must have cut a
sorry figure, indeed, I expect; my clothes rough and torn, begrimed
with dirt and smeared here and there with blood, my head swathed in a
bandage, and my face pale to whiteness above and blackened below with
my sprouting beard.

“I wish you could laugh at me. It would do me a power of good.”

“Laugh! Burgwan!” she said, her lips trembling. She put out her hand.
“Let me help you. Lean on me.”

“As if I wanted any help,” I laughed, and making an effort, I started
toward the horse I was to mount, only to stagger badly after half a
dozen steps. In a moment her arm was under mine.

“You see,” she exclaimed, in quick distress.

But I laughed. “Coward, to gloat over my fallen pride. I only tripped
over something.”

“Lean on me,” was all she said.

“Are you really fit to travel, Burgwan?” asked Karasch.

“Get me on to the horse. I can ride when I can’t walk.”

“I think you should stay here,” he declared.

“Silence, Karasch,” I returned, angrily. My anger was at my own
confounded weakness, but I vented it on him. “The air will pull me
together.”

I started again for the horse and this time reached it, and with
Karasch to help me, clambered into the saddle.

Mademoiselle watched us almost breathlessly. If my face was whiter than
hers, I must have looked bad indeed.

“Have you got everything, Karasch?”

“Yes. Food, water and arms;” and he pointed to the horse he was to ride
which was well laden.

“I can’t help you up, Mademoiselle,” I said, with a smile.

I seemed to be the only one of the three who could raise a smile; for
she looked preternaturally grave and troubled as she mounted, and
Karasch as though he had never known a smile since he was born. But
then he was never much of a humorist.

“The map and the compass, you have them?” I asked him.

“I have them,” said Mademoiselle.

“Then we can go. Wait, wait,” I exclaimed. “I have forgotten something.
I must get off.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“We must have money. It’s in the hut. I must get it.”

“You can’t go in there,” she said, quickly.

“Why not?”

“The men are there.”

“The men there?” I repeated dully, not understanding. “What are they
doing there?”

“When you were found in the tent we dared not move you, so we brought
the bed across to you and put the wounded men in the cottage.”

“Yes, of course, you haven’t told me yet what occurred. But my money is
hidden there and we must have it.”

“We’ll fetch it if you tell us where to find it.”

“Karasch?” I answered, doubtingly.

“You can trust him. I am sure of him,” she declared with implied
confidence. “He is a Serb and would give his life for--for us. I would
trust him with mine.”

“There is more there than he thinks. I’d rather he didn’t see it all.
Life is one thing, money’s another.”

“Tell me then. I will get it. He shall go with me to the hut door, but
shall not see it.”

I told her where to find it and she and Karasch dismounted. I waited on
my horse and while they were in the cottage I heard the report of a
gun in the distance.

Chris started up at the sound and barked in warning.

“I don’t like the thing either, old dog.” I didn’t; for unless I was
too dizzy to guess right, it came from the direction of Lalwor and
threatened trouble.

They lingered an unnecessary time in the cottage and every moment was
now dangerous; so I rode up to the door and called them. When they came
out Mademoiselle was trembling and looked scared and ill.

“I must get them some water, Burgwan,” she said, as she handed me the
money. “I cannot leave them like that. One of them--the one Chris flew
at--seems to be dying.”

“We dare not stay;” and I told them of the gunshot I had heard. “There
will soon be enough here to look after them.”

Karasch settled the matter with a promptness which showed what he
thought of the news. He threw down the pannikin he carried and shut the
door of the hut.

“Come,” I said to her; and seeing we were both so earnest, she gave way
and we started.

We rode slowly and in silence down the ravine until we reached the
mouth of it, and made such speed as we could down the mountain road.

“There’s a lot I want to ask; but as the easiest pace for me is a
canter, and as it’s the safest for us all just now, we’ll hurry. We
can talk afterwards,” I said when we reached the level; and I urged
my horse on until we were cantering briskly, the old dog loping along
close to me and looking up constantly as though he was fully conscious
that something was very much amiss with me calling for the utmost
vigilance and guardianship on his part.




CHAPTER VIII.

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT.


We did not slacken speed until we had put some miles between us and
the camp; and although at first I suffered abominable torture from the
jolting, I had to keep on, and after a time I found that the rush of
the cool air, acting as a kind of stimulating tonic revived me. My head
became gradually less painful and my brain cleared.

If we had only been certain of our road I should have had no serious
misgivings as to the result. We were all well mounted, and although
the horses were not fresh, yet they were quite fit to carry us the
distance we had to travel to reach the railway. But I could only guess
the road, picking the way by the compass; and in that difficult and
barren district there was a constant risk that we should lose the way,
especially as we should have to ride through the night.

It was almost evening when we left the camp, and my intention was to
ride as far and as fast as possible while the daylight lasted and then
rest until the moon rose. We should then have six or seven hours to
ride before even the earliest peasants would be astir, and in that time
I calculated we should be able to reach the frontier town of Samac, the
terminus of the line.

The overpowering reason for travelling at night was the fear that some
attempt would be made at pursuit. If Petrov and Gartski succeeded in
bringing any considerable party back to the camp from Lalwor, they
would learn from the men there of the reward to be paid for getting
Mademoiselle to Maglai; and for any such sum as three thousand gulden
the average Bosnian peasant would leave all he had in the world
and go scrambling for a share of it. And with greed to back up the
superstitious abhorrence of witchcraft, there was no telling what would
be done.

We were a party easily tracked, too. Two wounded men, a woman, and a
huge hound like Chris would be readily remembered if once seen anywhere
at any time; and the night was thus the safest for us.

I kept all these thoughts to myself, however, and pushed on as fast as
practicable, although both Mademoiselle and Karasch urged me more than
once to halt and rest.

“We must get on while the light lasts,” was my answer. “We shall be
compelled to rest when the dark falls;” and the only time we slackened
speed was when the nature of the road compelled us.

“I wish you would rest, Burgwan, if only for an hour,” said
Mademoiselle as we were walking the horses up a hill.

“Not while the light lasts,” I replied. “The fretting impatience to get
on would do me more harm than the rest would good. I am in little or no
pain now. Tell me what happened after I was knocked over.”

“Karasch and Chris saved me. He says the man in the tent with you
shouted some signal at which the two who were with him broke open the
hut door. Chris flew at them, pinned one man by the throat, and the
other who was close behind fell in the confusion.”

“Good Chris,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, indeed, good dog. Well, Karasch was on the watch and as the man
was getting up and drawing his knife to attack Chris, Karasch rushed up
and knocked him senseless with a gun.”

“Well played, Karasch. And then?”

“That was all, except that I had great difficulty in making Chris loose
his hold. His fury was really awful to see. But he obeyed me, and
Karasch and I together bound the men and made them prisoners; but both
were badly hurt--especially the one Chris mauled.”

“But the third man?” I asked, perplexed.

“We found him shot in the tent, near you.”

I remembered then my shot at random just as I was struck.

“Is he dead?”

“No, but badly wounded; and we got him and the man you took last night
to the hut.”

“Well, it serves them all right; and the folk from Lalwor will look
after them. They meant killing me. But it may make things uglier for
us, and is all the stronger reason for us to hurry on while the light
lasts;” and we pressed forward again.

Just when the gloom was deepening fast, my policy of haste was
justified.

I had halted at a point where the road forked and, in considerable
doubt which way to ride, was anxiously consulting my map when Chris put
his nose to the ground and whimpered.

“Steady, Chris, good dog, steady,” I whispered; and he knew he was
to make no noise. “Someone is about,” I said to Mademoiselle. We sat
silent and listened, and presently heard the throbbing of hoofs from
the direction we had been riding.

“Two horses,” said Karasch, whose hearing was very acute.

“It may be nothing. Ride into the shadow of those trees and let Karasch
and Chris go with you,” I said to Mademoiselle.

“But you....” she began to object.

“Please do as I say and at once,” I interposed; and I put my horse on
to the grass under another tree.

She did as I asked without further protest and I waited for the
newcomers. They caught sight of me while still at some distance and
checked their horses first to a trot, and then to a walk.

“You are well come; I have lost my way,” I said as they reached me.

“Who are you?” asked one; and as the question was put the other man
laughed, and backed his horse to a safe distance as he said:

“It is Burgwan. We are all right;” and I recognised the voice.

“That is Petrov?”

“Yes. You are wanted at the camp, Burgwan, to explain things there.
Where is the witch? May the curse of God blight her!”

“If you are the man, Burgwan, you must come back with us,” put in the
other man, who spoke with an air of authority.

“Must?”

“Yes, must. There are some badly injured men there; and the injured
make strange charges against you which must be explained.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Captain Hanske, from Lalwor--the head officer of the district
under the Imperial Government. You left the place with an escaped
prisoner? She must return with you.”

A most disquieting turn, this Of all developments possible, the least
to my liking was a conflict with the Austrian authorities.

“I am prepared to meet any charges,” I answered firmly. “An attempt was
made upon my life there, and all I did was done in self-defence. But I
cannot return with you.”

“You have no option. You must do as I say and at once.” He spoke in
curt stern tone of a man accustomed to be obeyed. I knew well enough
the fear in which the Austrian officials are held by the Bosnians.

“We will see,” I answered, in quite as stiff a tone. “I have first a
reckoning to settle with Petrov there;” and I wheeled my horse round
and rode toward him. But he did not wait for me to get near him. He was
off like the wind; as indeed I had hoped.

“I’ll carry the news back to the rest at the camp,” he called over
his shoulder, and he galloped back along the road as though the devil
himself were at his heels. I listened to the dying sounds of his
horse’s hoofs with intense satisfaction, and went back with a laugh to
the official.

“Your character as a desperado is well established,” he exclaimed drily
and angrily.

“Now we can talk on equal terms,” said I, quietly.

“I order you in the name of the Emperor to come with me.”

“And I tell you, man to man, I shall do nothing of the kind. I am no
desperado, as I shall be easily able to prove when necessary; but I
have no time for anything of the sort now.”

“Then I shall accompany you.”

“No, that also is impossible.”

“What were you doing in the camp yonder?”

“My own business, merely.”

“Where are you going?”

“Also about my own business.”

“Where are your papers?”

“I have none to show you.”

“Then I shall accompany you.”

“No. That I shall not allow.”

“Do you dare to threaten me?”

“There are three roads here. One back to the camp; one to the left
there, and one to the right. You are free to choose which you please
and I will take another.”

“I shall not leave you.” He was getting very angry and dogged.

“If you are armed you may perhaps force yourself upon me.”

“I shall do as I say,” he answered, with just enough hesitation to
assure me he was not armed. Then it occurred to me that it would be
safer to get him away from the place and to increase the distance
between him and the camp. It would be the more difficult for Petrov and
the rest to find him when they returned.

“Mademoiselle,” I called. She and Karasch came out. “We are to have a
companion. This gentleman desires to ride with us. This is our road;”
and choosing that which led away to the right, I rode on with her,
leaving the official to follow.

She had overheard the conversation and questioned me with some anxiety
as to what I meant to do. She went so far even as to suggest a return
to the camp.

“I have my plans. It will all come right. I should have left him at the
fork of the road there had I not thought it best to get him further
away.”

“But I could probably satisfy him,” she said.

“I’ll deal with him in my own way, please,” was my reply.

We plunged along at such pace as we could make now that the darkness
had deepened; but when we could go no faster than a walk, and were, I
reckoned, some two miles from the cross roads, I called a halt.

“We are going to rest here, captain,” I said to him, as we dismounted.

We three sat by the side of the road and while we made a hasty meal
I explained my plan to Karasch, who was frankly frightened by the
presence of the official.

“The moon will be up in a couple of hours, Karasch, and you must keep
watch. I must sleep or I shall not be fit to ride later. We are going
to leave that man here. If he dismounts, find the means to turn his
horse astray; if he does not, you must disable the horse. But don’t
shoot it except in the last resource; for we don’t know who might hear
the shot. The man we shall just tie up to a tree.”

“It is dangerous, Burgwan. He is an officer of the Imperial
Government,” said Karasch.

“If he were the Emperor of Austria himself, I should do it in the
plight we are in.”

I lay down. The excitement had kept me going; but I was done now;
utterly exhausted and worn out; and despite the hazard of our position,
I was soon fast asleep. I was wakened by a loud, angry cry from the
Austrian. I could scarcely lift my head for the throbbing in it; I
ached in every joint and muscle; and my leg was woefully stiff and
painful from that knife thrust; but I scrambled to my feet in alarm and
confusion at the noise.

I must have slept for some three hours; for the moon was up and shining
fitfully between the masses of ragged threatening clouds which were
scudding across the face of the heavens. By the light I saw the man
struggling with Karasch and shouting with a vigour that woke very
dangerous echoes in the still night. Mademoiselle was holding Chris,
who was growling ominously, and she was attempting to still him.

I went over to them and found that Karasch had strapped the man’s legs
tight together and was holding on to the strap with his one arm while
the Austrian was fighting and wrestling to get free.

“Down, Chris. You may loose him, Mademoiselle,” I said; and the good
dog came instantly to heel. “Stand from him, Karasch,” I called next.
“Now, sir, you must stop those cries; or I shall put the dog on you.”

“This is an outrage, an infernal outrage, and you shall all suffer for
it,” he cried, furiously.

“It’s done by my orders. The outrage is that you should endeavour to
force yourself upon us.”

“I am doing my duty. I am a Government----”

“I choose not to believe you; that’s all there is to it; and I take you
to be a dirty spy set upon me by that other coward, Petrov, who was
with you. I am going to tie your arms to your sides and leave you here.
We are both suffering from the injuries inflicted by your accomplices;
and if you resist, you must settle matters with my dog here--and he
makes a rough fighter at the best of times.”

“You infernal villain....” he spluttered.

“Chris.” The great dog came close up to him and a fearsome brute he
looked in the moonlight as he eyed the captain and showed his fangs
with an angry snarl. “Now, Karasch.”

He ceased to struggle then and let Karasch fasten him up securely; and
after that we gagged him, and finding a suitable place some distance
from the road we left him.

“Where’s his horse?”

“I started him over the hills. Mademoiselle helped me. I couldn’t have
done it without her. She got him from his horse talking with him, and I
got rid of the horse. It’ll probably go home.”

“It may go to the devil for aught I care. But we must be off without
losing another moment.”

I felt the necessity now. We had burnt our boats with a vengeance
in this treatment of the Austrian captain; and if we were caught on
Austrian territory there might be a big bill to pay before we could
settle matters. It was not now Mademoiselle’s safety only that depended
upon our reaching Samac, but our own also, and we pushed on as fast as
possible.

“Karasch told me how cleverly you got that man separated from his
horse, Mademoiselle,” I said when we were walking the horses up a steep
hill.

“He did not hear what I said to him?” she asked, quickly.

“He said nothing to me if he did.”

“He deserves what he has got; but it is a dangerous thing in Bosnia to
interfere with an Austrian official.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I made the only offer I could. I told him I was the cause of all the
trouble, was alone responsible, and offered to explain everything.”

“Ah, I see. You mean you offered to go back with him, if he would let
you go alone. It was like you.”

She started and glanced quickly at me. “I did not say that.”

“No. But I know you, and where you are concerned can make a guess.”

“You would have been free, Burgwan; and I could have cleared matters.”

“He was a fool, or he would have guessed and accepted the offer.”

“What do you mean? Guessed what?”

“That the moment I woke I should have ridden back to the camp.”

“Burgwan!”

“Do you think I should have left you in the lurch? It’s not the way we
treat women in England, or in America.”

“But you don’t understand. I should have been in no danger. Once under
Austrian protection I could have explained.”

“Explained what?”

“Who I am. You have never asked me.”

“I do not care. When you wish me to know, you will tell me; and when I
wish to know, I will ask. I can wait. I know what you are--to me.”

Either she did not catch the last words, for I had dropped my voice, or
she affected not to hear. She said nothing and when we reached the top
of the hill we rattled on again quickly.

When we drew rein at the next hill we walked half way to the top in
silence and then she broke it abruptly:

“I will tell you if you wish, Burgwan.”

“I do not. To me you are Mademoiselle: to you I am Burgwan; and
Mademoiselle and Burgwan we can best remain, until we are out of this
bother.”

“How far do you think we are from Samac?”

“We ought not to be more than a dozen miles at most--but that’s not
much more than a guess.”

“When we reach there, we shall part.”

“You will be glad to be on the safe road to Belgrade.”

“Is that another guess, Burgwan?”

“Yes, it’s another guess, Mademoiselle.”

“Do you think it’s a good one?”

“Yes. You would be an extraordinary woman if it were not. I wish with
all my heart we were safely there.”

“Then I wish it, too,” she answered, with a gesture. A long pause
followed until she said, “Yes, I do wish it. I had forgotten how ill
you are and how sorely you need rest.”

“I suppose it sounded as though I was thinking of myself.”

“Not to me; you never seem to think of yourself--at least during our
comradeship.”

“I like that word--comradeship. Thank you for it.”

“It has been a strange one, Burgwan. How good you have been. And I took
you at first for a--a peasant, and even once for a brigand.”

“There are worse folk in the world than peasants--or brigands either
for that matter.”

“What trouble I have brought to you.”

“We shall have the more to laugh over when we meet again.”

“We shall not meet again, Burgwan,” she said, so seriously and
deliberately that I thought I could detect a touch of sadness. Perhaps
I only hoped it, and the hope cheated me. I answered lightly,

“One never knows. The world’s a small place now. You might come to
America some day.”

“No, no. That is impossible,” she interjected quickly.

“Then I might go to Belgrade.”

“No, no,” she exclaimed again in the same quick tone. “That too must be
impossible.”

“Impossible is a word we are going to wipe out of the American
dictionary,” I replied, with a smile. “We shall see; but as we are at
the top of the hill we’ll hurry on to Samac--the first stage, whether
for America or Belgrade.”

She turned as if to say something, her face very grave and earnest, but
after a moment’s hesitation shook up her reins and we cantered on.

But a good deal was to happen before we reached Samac; the first stage,
as I had so glibly named it. We had some few miles of easy going
when the path became very difficult and branched suddenly in three
directions. I picked out that which, judging by the compass, promised
to lead us straight to Samac. But instead of that, when we had followed
it for an hour or more we found it cut by a broad, swift-flowing river.

The path led right down to the water’s edge and rose from it on the
other side; but the river was in flood from the recent heavy rains,
and the ford was impassable. Karasch and I both tried to cross, on
horseback first and then on foot, but failed; and then we rode along
the bank searching for a fordable spot.

But this only led us into worse disaster. We came to a spot where
another stream, itself as fierce and swift and broad, joined the first.
We were cut off hopelessly.

We had lost precious hours in this way. It was long past the dawn; and
to make matters even worse I could find no trace of the streams on the
map anywhere near Samac.

It was an awkward plight in all truth. To go on was impossible; to stay
where we were for the waters to subside was useless; and yet to go back
was only to put ourselves once more on the road where we might look for
danger from those we knew to be in pursuit of us. The hours we had thus
wasted had thrown away all the advantage gained by the night’s riding.

Yet there was nothing else for it; and with a bitter sigh and something
stronger at the bad luck, I gave the word, and we started to return.




CHAPTER IX.

FROM BAD TO WORSE.


The crushing disappointment and the anxiety it caused, following on
the fatigue of the long ride, aggravated the injury to my head so that
I could scarcely keep in the saddle. I had to cling to the pommel to
prevent myself from falling.

Mademoiselle was quick to see my condition.

“Let us rest, Burgwan,” she said.

“No, we must push on. They may get ahead of us. I shall be better again
directly.”

“I am too tired,” she answered; and without waiting to hear my protest,
she slipped from her horse.

“You must not do that,” I exclaimed, irritably.

“Karasch’s arm is bad too,” she replied. “Isn’t it, Karasch?”

“Yes, it is paining me, Burgwan,” he declared then. “I cannot go any
further;” and he dismounted and came to help me.

“Then I’ll ride on and find the road and return,” I said.

“No,” exclaimed Karasch, as he seized my horse’s bridle.

“Stand away, Karasch,” I cried, angrily. I was more like a fractious,
obstinate child just then than a reasoning man. I felt I was too weak
to go on and was angry with them both because I could not hide it.

“You must get off, Burgwan,” he returned, firmly.

“I’ll break your other arm if you don’t loose my bridle, Karasch.”

“Then I’ll hold it. You won’t break mine, Burgwan,” said Mademoiselle,
taking it quickly. “Hold my horse, Karasch. I am faint for want of food
and rest, Burgwan. Won’t you help me?”

“You are only doing this because you think I’m such a weak fool as not
to be able to keep going,” I declared, angrily. “Please to loose that
bridle, Mademoiselle.”

“Not until you break my arm, Burgwan.”

I sat still looking with a child’s sullen anger into her clear, calm,
resolute eyes.

“If you were a man....” I began and then laughed. “I’m a fool and
that’s all there is to it. I’ll get off--but I won’t forgive you.
This is mutiny.” I rolled from the saddle and was glad of the help of
Karasch’s sturdy arm. “You don’t seem very weak, you coward,” I said,
half in earnest, half in jest.

“That’s not the broken arm, Burgwan,” he replied, as he helped me with
the gentleness of a girl.

“I’m all right and could ride fifty miles,” I protested angrily as I
sat down; and then in proof of it, I fell back and fainted from sheer
weakness.

When I came to myself Mademoiselle was bathing my face and head, deep
pity and care in her eyes.

“I’m horribly ashamed of myself,” I murmured.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t break my arm, Burgwan, isn’t it?” she
said, smiling.

“I was angry. I wanted to go on. I’m sorry.”

“It was mutiny, you know. You feel better now?”

“Oh, yes. I can sit up. Was I long?”

“Only a few minutes. Karasch has tethered the horses and is getting
us something to eat. Do you know, I was never so hungry in my life
before?” and she laughed brightly.

“We’re in a desperate mess,” said I, gloomily.

“We should have been in a worse if we had gone on.”

“Rub it in. You got your own way, you know.”

“I meant to have it; and I’m not going to put my foot in the stirrup
again until you have had something to eat and have slept for at least
two or three hours.”

“You have a very masterful way of your own.”

She nodded and smiled to me. “But the point is whether you are going to
obey without more--mutiny.”

“You seem to take this for a kind of picnic.”

“Here’s breakfast at any rate,” she cried, as Karasch came up.

“Put it down here, Karasch, and get one of the saddles to prop Burgwan
up.”

“I can sit up without anything, I assure you.”

“Who did you say was masterful?”

I gave in with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders and let them
arrange the saddle, and found it very comfortable.

It was poor fare. Some hard biscuits, a tin of preserved meat, and some
water from the river; but it could not have been enjoyed with more
relish if it had been the best breakfast that the Waldorf-Astoria chef
could have sent up.

Mademoiselle’s cheerfulness in the strange and depressing circumstances
was positively dauntless. She would see nothing but the brightest side
of things. We were lost on the hills; but then it would be so much
the more difficult for anyone to find us. The food was rough, but we
had plenty to last us for all that day and part of the next. The loss
of time might be dangerous, but we all needed rest and could take it
without risk where we were. We did not know where to look for the road
to Samac, but we should be sure to find a way somewhere. And meanwhile
we were getting stronger and so better able to face the trouble.

Even Karasch’s stern face relaxed under her influence. And as for
me--well, I rolled over on the soft grass when she told me, and having
put old Chris on the watch, went off to sleep as contentedly as though
her view of the position and not mine were the true one.

I slept for some hours. I woke once and looked round to find Karasch
lying on his back at some distance, snoring in a deep stertorous
diapason; and Mademoiselle curled up fast asleep peacefully with Chris
lying at her feet. The hot sun was pouring down on the hills and crags
around us; and I stretched myself lazily and was soon off again in deep
refreshing slumber.

When I awoke again I was alone to my great surprise. The horses were
grazing near me tethered; but even Chris was away somewhere; and I sat
up wondering in some confusion what it meant.

A glance at my watch showed it was two hours and more past noon and
that I must have slept for six or seven hours. I felt immensely
refreshed. The pain in my head was so slight as to be inconsiderable,
and although my leg was stiff, I could move about freely.

Feeling in my pockets I found a couple of cigars in my case, and
lighted one to think over things. I was smoking it with a rare relish
when I saw Mademoiselle coming from the direction of the river with
Chris in close attendance. How the old rascal had taken to her! I went
to meet them; and as I approached, the dog came running to fawn upon me
and then rushed back to fawn upon her; and looked from one to the other
of us as though our comradeship, as she had termed it, was just the
loveliest thing in the world to him.

“Chris seems to approve our comradeship, Mademoiselle,” I said,
marvelling how on earth she managed to look so fresh and sweet after
her rough-and-tumble experiences during the last forty hours. Her soft,
glossy hair was as neatly arranged as though she had just come from
her room, her dress was in such order that so far as I could see not a
thing was out of place.

“He has been with me to the river on guard. I had no idea it was so
difficult to wash in a river, and to do one’s hair out of doors and
without a glass.”

“You have been very successful. You put me to shame sadly,” and I
glanced down in dismay at myself. “And you are so bright and sunny.”

“There is good news. Our luck has turned. Karasch found a peasant who
was crossing the hills and is learning from him our route. They are on
the hill yonder.”

“Thank God for that,” I said, fervently.

“Yes, I suppose it is good news,” she replied in a tone which made me
glance quickly at her. Then she added, after a pause: “You look much
better for your rest, Burgwan.”

“I feel a different man.”

“Kindly disposed toward masterful rebels?”

“Yes; and very grateful to one of them.”

“I thought you were actually going to strike Karasch when he held your
bridle rein this morning.”

“I felt like it, too.”

“I think he is afraid of you, Burgwan. It was you who broke his arm,
wasn’t it?”

“He broke it in a fall.” She paused and glanced at me.

“He told me all about that fall, and what he meant to do, if you hadn’t
beaten him. It was for me you risked your life in that fight.”

“Karasch ought to hold his tongue.”

We reached the spot where we had rested, and sat down to wait for
Karasch.

“I have been thinking this morning,” she said, slowly.

“We all have some thinking to do before we are out of our plight.”

“You call this a plight,” and she smiled. “Why, see what a lovely wild
country it is. I could live in these hills--live, I mean, in the sense
of keen, rare enjoyment. Look.” She pointed from one hill to another
with kindling eye. “The freedom of it. The very air is different from
all other.”

“I should like some clean clothes,” I put in, flippantly.

“Don’t.” And she gestured and frowned. “I want you to feel what it must
be to me, and then to think, as I was thinking a while since, what
would have been my fate--if it had not been for you. And you call this
a plight! It is like Heaven in comparison!”

“I don’t want you to exaggerate what I did.”

“I am not exaggerating it,” she replied deliberately. “I don’t. I
could not. You risked your life for me and saved me. Not only when you
rescued me from the two men, but afterwards with Karasch; and yet again
afterwards when you were hurt. Could I exaggerate that, Burgwan? Can I
ever repay it?”

She was so earnest in the desire to make me feel her gratitude and
looked at me with such sweet graciousness, that I came within an ace of
telling her how she could repay me. The very words rushed to my lips
only to be stayed by an effort as I dropped my eyes before her. I could
not speak of this while she was still dependent upon my help.

“What a long time Karasch is,” I said clumsily after a long pause, not
knowing indeed what else to say.

I felt her eyes still upon me. She made a slight gesture of
dissatisfaction and her voice had an accent of resentment.

“You are anxious to get to your clean clothes and all that they stand
for--in exchange for this.”

“You are not content with this?”

“I could be,” she murmured, with a sigh.

“I don’t understand you.”

“No. I suppose not. You haven’t the key.”

“You can have no reason to be afraid to go back to Belgrade. I know
that, because at the camp you were so anxious to start. Your sighs then
were of discontent because you couldn’t start at once.”

“You remember?” She smiled slowly, and then grew serious. “No, it
is not exactly fear, and yet--I suppose in a way it is fear. It is
certainly reluctance. Oh, I see what you mean.” She broke off, smiling
very brightly this time. “That there may be some reason connected with
the cause of my capture which threatens me: that I have committed some
offence or----”

“No, no, I don’t think anything of the sort,” I interposed.

“No, I’m not a criminal, not even a political criminal, Burgwan--and
not even a witch.” The smile became a free and joyous laugh, and I
joined in and laughed also.

“I’m not so sure about the witchcraft, Mademoiselle.”

“If I were a witch I should know all about you and I--yes, I should
like to, and yet I would rather not. We can be so frank while you are
just Burgwan. It is all so strange, this comradeship of ours. I shall
never forget it. Shall you--even when you get to those clean clothes
that are so much in your thoughts?”

“I’m not likely to change my thoughts even when I change my clothes.”

“What a time Karasch is,” she laughed, throwing back my own words at
me. “Keeping you from the tailor and the barber in this way!”

“He is keeping you from Belgrade--a much more serious matter.”

“I don’t mind that--and yet I suppose I ought to. But this is so
delightful,” she cried, joyously.

“This?”

“This delicious freedom. This utter irresponsibility. This Burgwan and
Mademoiselle comradeship. This being able to laugh at conventions and
snap one’s fingers in the face of restrictions--the thousand petty
‘don’ts’ and ‘mustn’ts’ that edge one in so, till one’s very breath
has to be drawn with restraint and every look and gesture fitted to
some occasion and empty etiquette. How I wish I was just no more than a
peasant girl! Oh, it is life.”

“There are plenty of them who would be glad to change places with you.”

“Yes, I know I am talking nonsense, and I daresay I should grow tired
of it all in a week or a month, and sicken for the flummery and mummery
again. Besides, there might be no Burgwan like you and no Chris in
the picture, to feel safe with and trust. I couldn’t do with only
Karasch’s, could I?”

“He is a very good fellow, and might make a very good husband.”

“Oh, don’t, please. Now you’ve shattered the dream, and made me wish
for Belgrade and my friends.”

Did she mean all I was ready to read into that sentence? Was it
intended as a warning lest another than Karasch should presume? I
was glad I had held my tongue just before. When I did not reply, she
stooped and patted the dog and then laughed.

“I wish you were my dog, Chris,” she said. “I shall get one just like
him and call him Chris.”

“Would you like to change masters, Chris?” He drew himself lazily
across the grass at my words and thrust his nose into my hand almost as
if understanding my question and answering it. “I will give him to you
if you like, Mademoiselle.”

But she shook her head. “No. No, no, no,” she cried.

“Why not?”

She called him back to her side and caressed him before she answered,
and then spoke very slowly.

“I don’t think I know why. I would rather have him than anything in
the world, but I couldn’t take him. I--I couldn’t bear to have him, I
think.”

“You may change your mind when you see him next time.” She bent over
him again and patted him and let him lick her hand.

“I am afraid I know what you mean, Burgwan--that you think of coming
some day to Belgrade. I hope you never will.”

“Why?”

“It would not do. Oh, no, no, a thousand times no. It is so difficult
to explain. Here we are Burgwan and Mademoiselle; and there--well, for
one thing, you would have your clean clothes,” and she broke off with
a smile partly quizzical and partly of dismay; and then added: “You
would look for Mademoiselle and would only find....” she finished with
a shake of the head and a sigh.

“You think I should be disappointed?”

“You must not come, Burgwan. There would be no Mademoiselle in
Belgrade.”

“Chris may wish to see his successor. He is a masterful dog, you know,”
I said with a smile.

“This is no jest, Burgwan. I wish you would promise me not to come
there. Ah, here comes Karasch. Promise me, Burgwan;” and in her
eagerness she leant across and laid a hand on my arm, the earnestness
of her manner showing in her eyes.

“I cannot promise,” I answered.

She drew her hand away with a gesture of impatience and said, as she
rose: “That is not like Burgwan. The very mention of Belgrade has
changed you.”

“Not changed me. I have always meant to go,” I replied. As I got up
Karasch reached us, and there was no chance to say more.

He explained that the peasant had been pointing out the way to him and
was willing to lead us to the proper road.

The horses were saddled at once and when they were ready, I went to
Mademoiselle, who had been standing apart gazing at the rugged scenery
with intense enjoyment.

“Are we ready, Burgwan?”

“Yes; we may start now.”

“I am almost sorry, I think,” she said, looking about her wistfully.
“But it’s all over.”

“Except the comradeship.”

“No, not even excepting that. You will get your clean clothes and I all
the conventions once more and--all that they mean. I am ready;” and she
sighed.

I helped her into the saddle.

“And it was only yesterday I would not let you help me to mount. It
seems a year ago,” she said. “You gave me that lesson in will power;
but I beat you this morning, Burgwan, and had my revenge.”

“Do you mean about my going to Belgrade?” I challenged.

“Ah, you will promise me then?”

“If I promised I should only break my word.”

“Promise, and I will trust you--for the sake of the comradeship.”

“Then I will not promise.”

“You will force me to tell you things that will compel you to promise.
And it will be kinder not to force me. Oh, so much kinder.”

“You puzzle me.”

“Will you promise? Burgwan?” she urged, pleadingly.

“I cannot.”

“Oh, that hard will of yours!” and wheeling her horse round she rode
off after Karasch and the guide, leaving me to follow.

What did she mean? What could she tell that would convince me a future
meeting must be avoided? What reason could there be on her side? What
could she think there might be on mine? These and a hundred questions
arising out of them plagued me during the ride; and none of the answers
that suggested themselves could satisfy me.

But I was soon to have other matters for thought. The guide put us in
the right road for Samac, which he told us was about fifteen miles
distant through a place called Poabja; and as soon as he had left us we
rattled over the ground at a sharp canter.

For one thing, I was very uneasy about the Austrian officer whom we
had treated so drastically on the previous night. If he was found and
liberated, and raised a hue and cry after us there would probably be
some very awkward consequences; while if he was not liberated soon,
his very life might be jeopardised. My intention was to send a search
party after him as soon as we reached a place where that could be done
without risk to ourselves; and I was confident that my influence in
Vienna was amply sufficient to cause my explanation of the whole affair
to be accepted. But I could and would do nothing until I was certain of
Mademoiselle’s safety.

My anxiety increased when we reached the outside of Poabja; and I kept
a vigilant lookout for any signs that the news of our arrival could
have preceded us. This was possible, of course. We had strayed so far
from the proper road and had stayed so long in the hills that if Petrov
and the rest from the camp had followed us to where we had encountered
the Austrian, and had continued on the road to Samac, they would pass
through Poabja and we might easily run up against some trouble, even
without the complication arising out of the official’s rough handling
by us.

I soon noticed signs which I did not like. We began to meet peasants
and others on the road; and I observed that while some of them did no
more than stare at us with close scrutiny, others started away and
turned their backs and made the sign of the cross as we passed.

Karasch noticed this also; and when we met a couple of men who behaved
in this eccentric fashion, he glanced from the men to Mademoiselle and
from her to me.

“Ill news has got ahead of us, Burgwan,” he said to me in an undertone.
“We had better avoid the town. You saw that sign of the cross!”

“Go back and question the men.”

“Why do we halt?” asked Mademoiselle, as Karasch rode back.

“We must make certain of the right road,” I answered.

“But is not this Poabja?”

“Yes.”

“Then we know we are right. Samac is not half a dozen miles beyond.”

Karasch came back wearing an anxious look.

“To avoid the town will cost a couple of leagues. But I think we should
take that route,” he said.

“Why avoid it? We have lost our way once,” said Mademoiselle.

“We fear trouble. News of our coming is known,” I explained.

“Do you mean about the officer who tried to stop us last night?”

“No--that you are suspected of witchcraft.”

She laughed. “I have nothing to fear in Poabja. I will find means to
charm their anger into friendship;” and she settled the question of
route by shaking her reins and cantering off toward the straggling
little place.

The approach lay up a long, winding hill, steep in places, and as we
rode up it the people came out from the houses to gaze at us. Languid
curiosity gave way to close interest, and this in turn quickened into
some excitement. Men and women walked up the hill abreast of us and
some few ran on ahead.

Near the top of the hill stood an inn outside which some half dozen
saddle horses were hitched; and when the riders came hurrying out I was
scarcely surprised to see Petrov among them talking and gesticulating
freely to his companions.

Men began to call then one to the other; the calls were caught up on
many sides, at first intermittently but swelling gradually, as the
crowd increased, into a coherent cry which I recognised with deep
misgivings.

“The Witch! The Witch! The Witch!”

I regretted that we had taken the risk; but Mademoiselle only smiled
even when the cries grew louder and more angry and threatening, and
hands were raised in imprecations and revilings.

“Forward,” I cried. “We must get through them.” But to my dismay
Mademoiselle hesitated.

Then Petrov and a man with him ran and placed themselves in front of
her and made a snatch at her bridle rein. Karasch and I pushed forward.

“Stand back there,” I said.

“That she devil can’t pass, Burgwan,” answered Petrov.

I stretched forward and tore his grip from the rein and flung him
reeling back into the crowd.

A score of hands were raised in menace and the cries of “The Witch!
Death for the Witch!” went up all around us; while the circle closed in
ominously. A stone was hurled and narrowly missed me and then some dirt
was thrown at Mademoiselle.

That was more than I was taking. If we were to get through it would
have to be by force. So I drew my revolver and called to Karasch to do
the same.

“I’ll shoot the first man who stops me,” I shouted, and for a moment
the men fell back before the weapons. “Now is our chance. Gallop for
all we’re worth and we shall get through.”

But the luck was against us. A stone struck Mademoiselle’s horse and he
reared and plunged and then fell. In a second she was in the grip of
half a dozen men and before Karasch and I could dismount and get to her
assistance we were separated from her by the crowd and seized in our
turn, the weapons were struck from our hands and we were overpowered.

I was carried into a house close to the inn, my hands and legs
were bound and I was thrust into a room and left to curse my folly
for having ventured into the place, to brood over the dangers to
Mademoiselle, and to breathe impotent vows of vengeance against Petrov
and everyone concerned in our capture.




CHAPTER X.

AT POABJA.


For an hour and more I was left to gnash my teeth in rage as I tore and
struggled fruitlessly to loosen the cords that bound me. In that hour I
endured the torments such as even hell itself could not have surpassed.
My violent struggles inflamed the hurt to my head until it throbbed as
if it would split; but all mere physical pain was lost and deadened in
the surpassing agony of mind.

The thought of that sweet, pure girl in the power of these crazy,
superstitious fanatics was unendurable; and had the torture continued
longer it would have driven me mad. Death threatened her every minute
she was in the hands of frenzied fools such as they were; and a hundred
possible ways in which they might murder her occurred to me, each
stimulating the passion of my fear and anguish.

At length the door of my room was opened and Petrov and another man
entered. The sight of him so maddened me that I strove to rise, bound
though I was, to wreak my fury upon him.

“No harm is meant to you, Burgwan,” he said.

My answer was a volley of curses and threats so vehement and furious
that he started back in alarm.

“No harm is meant to you,” he repeated.

“Loose these cords then, to prove it,” I cried.

His companion made as if to approach me when Petrov held him back.

“Not yet,” he said, turning pale with fear.

“It doesn’t matter when you do it. You know me, Petrov, and now mark
this. If I find that the least harm is done to Mademoiselle, I’ll make
you pay the price. And the price shall be your life. I’ll hunt you
down, if it costs me all I have in the world, and when I find you, God
have mercy on you, I won’t. That I swear.”

“She is a witch,” he said, doggedly.

“You lie, you treacherous snake. And if you value your dirty skin, see
that no harm comes to her.” It seemed to afford me some kind of relief
to abuse the beast.

“You told me so yourself,” he declared sullenly.

“Loose these cords and say that again, and I’ll tear your lying tongue
out by the roots.” I must have been beside myself to talk in this
strain; but it had its effect on him.

“She has come to no harm,” he said then.

“You may thank your God for that--if it’s true.”

“It is true,” declared the other man. “We came here to set you free.”

“Do it then.”

“Not while he threatens me,” put in Petrov, quickly.

“I know nothing about that. It’s the priest’s orders.”

I pricked up my ears at that and the great crushing weight of my fears
began to lighten.

“Say that again. And tell me what it means,” I cried.

“She’ll only be taken to Maglai,” said Petrov.

“Say that again,” I repeated to his companion.

“I don’t know what it means. I was told she had confessed to being a
witch and asked for the priest, that she might repent and be shriven;
and then we were told to come to unbind you.”

“Why the devil didn’t you say so then, when you came in, and do it at
once?”

“You’re too violent.”

“If all’s well with her, you can go to hell your own way.” The relief
from the strain was so intense I felt almost hysterical with sudden
joy, and I lay back and laughed aloud. The two men stood staring at me
wonderingly.

“What shall we do?” asked Petrov’s companion.

“If you disobey the priest, my good fellow,” I interposed, “you’ll see
what he says to you, and I’ll take care that he knows of it.”

Instead of replying, they left the room and fastened the door behind
them. I didn’t care now what they did. All was well in the matter that
had troubled me. Mademoiselle was unharmed and they might do with me as
they pleased. I could trust myself to get out of any trouble when once
I was in communication with my agents in Vienna.

All was well with her and the world was once more a place to smile in.

Then I began to piece things together and to figure out how such a
change could have been effected. Mademoiselle herself had found the
means of doing it all. I recalled her phrase about charming away the
anger of the people at Poabja, and the way in which she had cantered on
fearlessly when Karasch and I had counselled the other route to avoid
passing through the town. She must have had a strong reason for her
confidence. Brave as she certainly was, she would not have faced such a
risk voluntarily unless she had had good grounds to know she would pass
the ordeal successfully.

Who was she? What influence was she, a Serb of Belgrade, likely to have
in that out-of-the-way Bosnian village? On whom was that influence
exercised? The man said she had confessed to her witchcraft and asked
for the priest that she might repent and be shriven. The priest it
was who had ordered my release, and the priest it must be, therefore,
through whom she had been able to clear herself.

How? It was an easy inference that he knew her and that she had made
the pretended confession so as to get face to face with him. But why
had she told me nothing about him? “I have nothing to fear in Poabja,”
she had said; but not a word of the priest. And then I thought I could
see the reason. She did not wish him to tell me who she was.

Had I known of him she knew I should have sought him out first, or have
sent for him, and the secret would have been out before she could have
cautioned him to say nothing. Rather than that, she had risked entering
the place and facing the crowd. Yet she had offered once to tell me
about herself. At that point the apparent inconsistency beat me; and
the only guess I could make was that she had anticipated getting to the
priest without any such trouble as that which had befallen us.

I was more than content to lie there thinking in this way. It pleased
me to let my fancy run at random about her. I cared nothing who she
was. To me she was just Mademoiselle; and I wanted to know no more.
She had come into my life to stay; and nothing that she could be, and
nothing she could ever do, would alter that all-supreme fact for me.

Two days before I had never seen her. Forty-eight hours! But they had
been forty-eight hours of comradeship; and forty-eight years could
not blot out all that those hours had held for me, when I had been
in succession the peasant Burgwan, the brigand, and then the trusted
comrade and friend.

What had they held for her? I would have given much to know. Daring,
imperious, rebellious, yielding, solicitous, and at last utterly
content to trust as she had been in turn; what feelings lay beneath the
surface? How was I to read that conversation on the hillside? Why was
she so resolute that our parting was to spell permanent separation;
that I must not go to Belgrade, and must never seek to see her again?

I had not given the promise sought, of course. I would not give it.
What would she say if I told her that my visit to Belgrade, in my
character as financier was already arranged and that my hand had
already been felt in that unrestful little centre of Balkan policy.
Probably she knew nothing and cared little about Balkan politics or
finance; and I was indulging in half a hundred conjectures of her
reason for my keeping away from Belgrade when the two men entered my
room and brought me a note.

“From the priest,” said one of them.

But it was not. It was from her.

  “All my troubles are over and you may be quite at rest about me. Give
  your word not to hurt the man Petrov. I ask this. I ask, too, that
  you will consent to remain where you are for two hours longer. Will
  you do this--a last favour? For all you have done for me I cannot
  thank you; I can only remember. Do you think me graceless and a churl
  if I say our comradeship is over and if I go without seeing you? I
  can only say in excuse, I must. To Burgwan from

                                                         “Mademoiselle.”

“I am taking Chris. You said I should alter my mind. I have. I will
treat him as what he has been--one of the comrades.”

I read the letter two or three times. At first with feelings in which
chilling despair, a sense of ineffable loss, and intensely bitter
regret overpowered me. It stung me like a blow in the face that she
could go like this, without even a touch of hands, or a parting glance.
She was safe, and I was nothing, or less than nothing to her. But at
the second and third reading very different thoughts were stirred. A
hope sprang to life in my heart great and wild enough to dazzle and
bewilder me.

Could it be, not that she cared nothing for me but that she feared for
herself in the hour of parting? Dared I hope that? Did she fear that
feelings, which she was all unwilling to shew, would force themselves
out in despite of her efforts in the moment of parting? Was it from
that part of herself, from her heart, that she was thus running away,
and not only from me? I prayed that it might be so.

Then a colder mood followed, cold enough to freeze that hope, at the
prompting of judgment. She knew nothing of me. To her I was just
Burgwan; at first peasant, then, on my own admission, an American
in such sordid surroundings as might well make her deem me a mere
adventurer. With that belief in her mind, she might well be at a loss
how to part from me--what to say and do, and whether she ought not to
make me some reward for what I had done.

The thought bit like a live acid with its intolerable sting; and yet
my judgment found reason after reason in support of it. I alternated
between a hot desire to rush out there and then and seek her, and a
stolid, dogged resolve to let her go and to live down the mad desire to
see her and explain all.

“You are to give us some answer,” said the man who had brought the
letter. The two had been watching me in silence during those few
distraction-filled minutes. “An answer concerning Petrov here.”

“You are safe from me, Petrov,” I replied. “I will let you go, but keep
out of my way for the future.”

“I meant no harm, Burgwan, on my soul none to you. I did what I did
for you,” he said, and stooped to cut the cords that bound my feet. “I
did wrong and am sorry.”

He was an idiot, but he couldn’t help that; and I let him free my hands.

“Get me some paper,” I said, and he hurried away and returned with it.
My hands were too numbed from the cords and the efforts I had made to
release myself for me to be able to do more than scratch senseless
hieroglyphics on the paper. I could scarcely hold the pencil, indeed,
and he and the other man chafed them until the blood was set in
circulation.

Even after some minutes of this I could only write in large, uncouth
letters--a sort of illiterate scrawl which was no more than a
caricature of my handwriting. But time was pressing. Mademoiselle might
be gone before my letter could reach her, so I wrote as best I could.

“I agree on condition that you see me. Burgwan.”

I spelt my name as she had been accustomed to pronounce it; and having
sent Petrov to deliver it, I ordered the other man to get me some food
and milk.

I had no appetite; but I had eaten nothing for many hours and knew I
must keep up my strength; so I forced myself to take it. The milk was
grateful enough, for I was feverish and consumed with thirst. But all
the time I was waiting impatiently for Petrov’s return with the answer
to my letter; and as soon as I had finished the meal I paced up and
down the low, narrow room feeling like a caged beast.

But my resolve was fixed. She should not go without my seeing her; and
when minute after minute passed and Petrov did not return, I could
barely keep within the house, and was seized with a fierce longing to
rush off to the priest’s house and find her.

At length the suspense and restraint passed endurance, and I went to
the door and shouted for someone. The man who had been with Petrov came
in response.

“Who is the priest who gave you your orders?”

“Father Michel.”

“Where does he live?”

“By the side of his church at the end of the long street.”

“How far is it? How long should it take to go there and return?”

“The man should have been back before now. I suppose they have kept him
while an answer was written.”

“Who are you?”

“This is my house. I keep the inn next door.”

“Where is my horse?”

“Your companion has them all. Karasch is his name, isn’t it?”

I had forgotten all about Karasch in my anxiety.

“Where is he and the horses?”

“They have been fed in my stables. There’s a bill to pay,” he added, as
though that was the most important feature in the whole case. I suppose
it was to him. I gave him a gold piece and told him to keep the change,
and so made a friend.

“Can you lead me to the priest’s house?”

“Of course I can, at need. But I was told you were going to remain here
a couple of hours. It is nothing to me.”

“See if Petrov is coming,” I said next. His words had recalled
Mademoiselle’s letter; and I was still anxious to do what she had asked.

He went out and after a minute or two, returned.

“He is coming down the hill now,” he announced.

“You can go then.”

“I shall be at hand if you want me,” he answered, and shut the door
behind him.

Petrov came a minute later and had a letter.

I tore it open with trembling fingers.

“Will you wait for me? Mademoiselle.”

I breathed a sigh of intense relief, and looking up, caught Petrov’s
eyes bent upon me. As he met my look he lowered his face.

“You can go,” I said, curtly.

“I want to serve you still, Burgwan.”

“I have no need for you. Go.”

“There is money due to me.”

“How much?”

He named a sum and I gave it him, saying that rightfully he had
forfeited it by his disobedience. He counted it slowly as if to make
sure it was right.

“I want to serve you still, Burgwan,” he repeated.

“I tell you I have no need for you.”

“About that Austrian Government officer, Burgwan, Captain Hanske?” It
was said with sly suggestiveness.

“Well?”

“Where is he? He stayed with you and has not been seen again. No one
but me knows you saw him last.”

I laughed.

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I want to serve you. Is he dead?”

“You insolent dog. No.”

“What did you do with him? I’ve kept my lips closed.”

“Closed or open it’s all one to me. Say what you like to whom you like.
But get away from here.”

“I want to serve you, Burgwan. You can pay. Not only about him, but
about that, too;” and he pointed to the letter.

“What the devil do you mean?”

“I was a long time gone, wasn’t I?”

“Well?” His manner and tone were full of suggestion.

“I can serve you. I can help you to get those three thousand gulden!”

“Three thousand gulden!” I exclaimed, utterly at a loss for his meaning.

“Yes, the three thousand waiting to be paid at Maglai.”

Then I understood and burst into a laugh.

“I think you’re making a pretty considerable ass of yourself, Petrov;
but I’ll listen to you.”

“You meant to take her to Maglai, you and Karasch. You knew she was no
witch and meant to earn the reward. Well, I can help you now, if you’ll
give me my share.”

My first impulse was to kick him out of the room and I started angrily
to obey it; but then a very different thought stopped me. He knew
something that I ought to know. He took me for a scoundrel enough
to betray Mademoiselle in this way and thought he could sell this
knowledge of his at the price of a share in the reward.

“Why were you so long away?” I asked, seizing on the vital point.

“What share am I to have?”

“Half the reward when I receive it.”

“You swear that?” he asked slowly.

“Tell me what you know,” I cried, sternly.

“Does she say she’ll come here?” he asked, pointing again at the note
in my hand.

“Yes.”

“Ah. She’s gone and if we’re to get her into our possession again we
shall have to be quick.”

“Gone? Where?” I exclaimed, aghast at the check.

He threw up his hands.

“To Samac. But you haven’t taken that oath about my share.”

“You infernal villain. Do you think I mean to harm her? Out of the
way;” and dashing him aside, I called for the other man and told him I
must have my horse at once.

Then I turned back to Petrov.

“How long has she been gone?” I asked.

“I shan’t say. I’ve lied to you, Burgwan.”

“Here;” and I took out some gold pieces. “These are yours if you tell
the truth.”

“She’s gone on the road to Samac, Burgwan, in a carriage which the
priest found for her, and has about half an hour’s start. They kept me
from coming back to you.”

Karasch came up then with his horse and mine, and in a moment I was in
the saddle dashing in hot haste up the winding street.




CHAPTER XI.

TO SAMAC.


Many of the village folk were still lounging in the street and the
clatter of the horses’ heels brought out more to gape and stare in
wonderment as we clattered past. We were nearing the end of the place
when I caught sight of a church with a mean-looking presbytery by the
side.

I checked my horse, rode to it, and asked for Father Michel. A tall
white-haired priest came out; kind-faced, with remarkable eyes almost
black, under black brows. A man to trust certainly.

“You are Father Michel?”

For answer he turned his searching eyes upon me, paused and said: “You
will be Burgwan?”

“Yes. And you know why I come.”

“On the contrary, I was in the act of coming to you.”

“Is she here?” I did not know how to speak of Mademoiselle; but he
understood instantly. He patted my horse’s neck and looked up with
sympathy in his manner and glance.

“You will let me speak with you?”

“Is she here?” I repeated.

“She wished me to see you. We arranged that she should go and that I
should give you her messages. You will come into my house?”

“No, I cannot wait. She is gone to Samac. I shall ride after her. I
must see her.”

“You are suffering,” he said, with that soothing comfort-offering air
which is the priceless possession of many women and some good men. “You
will let me give you her messages?”

“I cannot wait,” I said again; and yet I lingered.

“Will it ease your own pain to make her suffer?” The question made me
wince; and I shirked the answer to it.

“She _has_ gone to Samac?”

“Yes, she has driven to Samac. There is plenty of time for you to
listen to me and then to overtake her before she can leave there.”

“She was to come to me,” I said, with a glance of doubt at this. It
might be another ruse. He saw the doubt instantly.

“You may believe me. I do not wish to detain you if you prefer to go,
and should not stoop to a trick.” He stepped back and waved his hand as
if to signify I was free to go, and added: “It is only for her sake.”

He knew the strength such a plea would have for me.

“I must see her. I will.”

He threw up his hands with a gesture of pain.

I half wheeled my horse round to start and then checked him.

“Why did she go in this way?”

Again he turned those wonderful eyes of his upon me, and answered
slowly:

“If you do not know I must not tell you. She has gone out of your life
altogether--altogether. It is her own doing; her own will and wish and
doing. Let her go.”

“I will not,” I exclaimed almost fiercely.

“Have patience and the strength of a man, Burgwan. You have acted nobly
to her, offering your life in her defence. She cannot repay you. She
knows that, and I know it. Add chivalry to your courage, and spare her.”

“She told me to wait for her--in that letter, I mean; and yet before it
was in my hands, she had gone away.”

“The sweetest pleasure in life as well as the noblest quality in man is
self-denial, Burgwan; and in your case it is real prudence and wisdom
as well.”

“But she bade me wait for her,” I repeated.

“Not in Poabja, Burgwan. She bade me get from you your name and the
means of communicating with you if ever----”

“Then it was a mere trick of words,” I cried with angry unreason. “I
shall follow her;” and without waiting for him to reply I rode off
quickly. I think I was afraid to trust myself longer with him; afraid
lest he should prevail with me; afraid lest the fierce consuming desire
to look once more upon her face should be chilled by the appeals to my
better nature which he knew how to make so shrewdly.

Already he had made me conscious of the stubborn selfishness of my
purpose; and as I galloped along, I sought to stifle the feeling with
specious palliation and anger. She had no right to treat me in this
way. I had done nothing and said nothing to deserve it. She had run
away under the cover of a mere trick and ruse. And so on.

But I could not shake off the impression of the priest’s words, “Will
it ease your own pain to make her suffer?” The question haunted me. I
could find no answer to it in my own thoughts, just as I had found none
in speaking with him. Out of it came the chilling conviction that the
part I was playing was the part of the coward.

I was forcing myself upon her in face of her remonstrance and pleading.
“Her own will and wish and doing.” What was I but a coward to try and
force her. The very air took up the cry of coward; and the rhythm of my
horse’s hoofs seemed to echo it at every throbbing stride.

But I knitted my brows and set my teeth and held on. I must see her
again. I would. It was my passion that urged me. I would see her, let
the world cry shame upon me for my cowardice. And I dug my heels into
my horse’s flanks in my distraction and rushed along up hill and down
alike at a mad, reckless speed.

Fast as I rode, however, I could not outpace that thought of cowardice.
It gained upon me, little by little; now to be flung aside in anger,
only to return to chill me until I hated the thing I was doing and
had to put forth every effort of my selfish desire to prevent myself
checking the horse and turning back to seek some other means to my end.

If it was really to cause her suffering, after what she had gone
through, how dared I go on? What would she think of me? She had trusted
to me in all that time of peril with the implicit trust of a child.
Thank God I had been able to stand between her and her danger, and we
had come through it together to safety. And now I was so madly selfish
that I could not be man enough to spare her from this pain.

“I cannot thank you; I can only remember,” she had written. And here
was I bent upon blotting the memory with this slur of my own crude,
brutal selfishness. Was this what she would look for in her comrade?
Was it what she had the right to expect? How would the act look when
she came afterwards to remember?

Unwittingly I checked my horse. I was a coward now of another kind. I
was afraid to satisfy my own desire; afraid to mar the memory she would
have of our comradeship; afraid to meet the look of reproach I knew
would be in her eyes at the sight of me.

My horse, glad enough to ease his speed, fell into a walking pace, and
I let the reins drop on his neck as I hung my head in sheer dejection.
Karasch came to my side in astonishment then.

“Is anything the matter, Burgwan?”

“Nothing that you can help, Karasch.”

“We are going to Samac, are we not?”

“I don’t know--and don’t care. Don’t worry me with your questions.”

“Mademoiselle has been taken there, hasn’t she? Are you not going to
her help?”

“She has gone there of her own will and wish. She is quite safe; you
need have no fears for her.”

“How do you know she is safe?”

“The priest told me.”

“The priest!” he exclaimed, with scant respect. “I should like to know
it for myself and trust my own eyes.”

I started and instinctively gathered up the reins again. What if she
was not safe after all. Could the whole thing at Poabja be just a trick
to get her from me?

I laughed suddenly; so suddenly that Karasch started and looked at me
in surprise and some alarm.

“May I see the devil if I see a reason for laughing.”

But I did. I was laughing at the effect his words had had on me--at
the tempting pretext they offered for continuing the journey. I could
pretend that I was in doubt about her safety, and that that was the
reason for my riding after her. I played with the thought; and then
laughed again.

“Don’t be a fool, Karasch. She is quite safe, I tell you.”

“Have you ridden out thus far then at a wild gallop in order to see how
dusty the roads are?”

“I suppose that’s about how it looks,” I laughed.

“That blow on your head has hurt you more than we thought.”

“No, it isn’t my head this time,” I said drily.

“Your leg, you mean? Or did they do anything to you at Poabja?”

“Yes, it all happened at Poabja, Karasch. I must go back there and see
that priest again;” and I pulled my horse up and turned him. I would
have given much to have taken Karasch’s view and have ridden on, but
the thought of Mademoiselle’s eyes stopped me. Even if I persuaded
myself, I could not tell the lie to her.

Karasch sat facing me stolidly.

“You are ill, Burgwan, or it wouldn’t be like this with you. Go back to
Poabja and I’ll seek you there.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“To Samac. I will not desert her.”

The grim irony of this was too much for me and I smiled. Here was I,
consumed with intense longing to go to her and compelled to hold myself
back with a curb of iron--and to Karasch my act seemed no more than
paltry cowardice and desertion. My smile seemed to anger him.

“You have not been so free with your laughter till now,” he said,
curtly, “and I see no cause for it.”

“If I laugh it is not for joy, Karasch; but you don’t understand. Do as
you say. Go on to Samac and bring me any news you may find there.”

“You are right. I don’t understand. But you had better ride on with me.
If you are really ill, we are nearer to Samac than Poabja; and if there
is news you ought to know, it may mean a grievous waste of time to have
to ride back to Poabja.”

How aptly the plea fitted with my desires. It was true, too. She might,
after all, have need of me. There was just the chance that matters had
been misrepresented. It could do no harm for me to be in Samac. I need
not see her even if I went there.

Karasch watched me closely as I sat letting these thoughts and others
of the kind influence me; and he believed that he was persuading me
and bringing me back to my right mind.

“I shall be very little use without you, Burgwan, if there is really
more trouble. We ought to make sure. We should be cowards to desert her
now.”

“I wonder which way the real coward would decide to go, Karasch. For
the life of me I don’t know;” but I wheeled my horse round again and we
rode on toward Samac.

After all I was not now going to see her, I said to myself. I would
just make sure, as Karasch had suggested, that all was well with her,
and then hide myself until she had left. That was how I shut the door
and turned the key against those uncomfortable words of the priest
about chivalry and self-denial. After all it was perfectly consistent
with chivalry to assure myself of her safety to the last minute, and
yet keep away; while as for self-denial that would be all the greater
if I did not see her when close to her at Samac than if I remained five
miles off at Poabja.

Yet in my heart I knew perfectly well I was going to see her. I was
going to play the coward and to force myself upon her at the risk of
causing her pain; aye, even with the prospect of losing her esteem.

I did not ride so fast now, and thus Karasch could talk. He wanted to
talk about her; what we should do when we reached Samac. But I could
not stand that, and each time he began I mumbled some incoherent reply
and struck my heels into my horse to get away from him; and at last he
gave up the attempt.

I knew that I was going to ride straight up to the railway depot where
I should find her; but I would not admit this even to myself yet, and
certainly would not put it into plain words.

Presently he chose another topic.

“Have you thought about that Austrian Government officer, Burgwan?” he
asked, with some evidence of uneasiness.

“Yes, a good deal.”

“What are you going to do about it? He can’t be left where we tied him
up.”

“Would you like to go and find him?” I asked, with a grin. It pleased
me to tease him in the mood I was in.

“No, by the God of the living, not for a fortune.”

“Shall we leave him to die then?” I put the question angrily, as if
rebuking him for callousness.

“You’d better go yourself,” he growled.

“It would be murder to leave him. There will be a big reward offered
for his murderers.”

“No one knows about it,” he growled again, uneasily.

“Oh, yes. Petrov does. He spoke of it in Poabja to me.”

“The blight of hell blind him for a cursed pig,” he exclaimed with
sudden savageness.

“There’s not much chance of that before he can say what he knows,
Karasch. I mean to leave the country.”

He started so violently that he checked his horse, and when he rode up
again he looked at me searchingly.

“Are you trying me?” he asked, half fiercely half in doubt.

“No, that’s for the judge to do.”

He chewed this answer for a while in gloomy silence; then he uttered
one of his quaint oaths into his black beard, and his face cleared.

“There was a time when I should have thought you ready to do even that
and worse. I don’t now.”

That beat me. “Then if I can’t fool you I may as well say what I mean
to do,” I said. “Petrov knows the point where we met last night; and
I shall send back to the priest at Poabja enough money to pay for
a search party being sent out under Petrov’s guidance to find the
officer. I marked the spot where we left him and can describe it
clearly enough.”

“And the men at the camp?”

“I shall send money for them to be cared for.”

“There’ll be a pretty mess of trouble when that officer once gives
tongue--a hue and cry will be raised for us.”

“It will have to be a loud one to reach us. We shall be far enough away
by that time.”

He pondered this answer in his deliberate way when puzzled; and then
lifted his head and looked across at me.

“We?” he asked.

“Didn’t I say I should be out of the country?”

“Yes, you did; but--” he shook his head, doubtingly.

“Did you think I should leave you behind, Karasch?”

“I couldn’t know,” he said; and urging his horse he added: “Shall we
get on? There’s Samac in sight.”

He rode ahead of me without another word until we were just at the
entrance to the town, when he stopped and waited for me. His face
was pale and set. He had been thinking earnestly, and was unusually
disturbed and nervous.

“You’re a man, Burgwan, right to the heart. I can’t say how glad I am
you beat me in that fight; and I’d never been beaten before.”

“It’s all right, Karasch; don’t say any more;” and I stretched out my
hand to him. He took it and held it as he answered almost emotionally:

“You’re a better man than I am every way, by the living God. I’m only a
dog beside you, but I’ll serve you like a dog, if you’ll let me.” His
earnestness amounted to passion now.

“Not like a dog, Karasch; not even like our good Chris; but like a man
and a friend.”

“I’m not fit to be your friend; I’m only a peasant when I’m nothing
worse; but I’ll be your man, God send the chance to prove it. And now
you lead and I follow.” He let my hand drop and fell behind and nothing
would induce him to ride farther at my side.

I was deeply touched by his earnestness. I had had many men offer
themselves to me before--a man with such wealth as I possessed always
will have. But this man was moved by no thought of personal advantage.
It was to Burgwan, the man, he pledged himself, not to the millionaire;
and I prized the offer for that reason alone.

But this act in falling behind and leaving me to take the lead just at
that juncture was not without its embarrassment. It made the pretence
of having followed his lead to Samac the more difficult to keep up; and
I rode through the town in no little doubt and hesitation what to do.

Inclination drew me straight to the station, and Mademoiselle; while
that pricking consciousness that was doing a cowardly thing warned me
away.

But love and doggedness triumphed. I had come too far to retreat; and
now that I was so near to her I lacked the pluck to keep away from her.

I did what I had felt I should do. I rode straight to the station and,
giving my horse into Karasch’s charge, I entered it to look for her.

She was there, sitting in the miserable waiting-room, dejected and
sorrowful, and bending over Chris as he squatted on his haunches beside
her, with his great head in her lap.

He recognised my step and with a whimper of pleasure, started up and
rushed to me, fawning upon me with such delight that I had to check him.

But Mademoiselle turned pale as she saw me, her hands clasped quickly
and tightly together, her lips parted and her brow drew together in a
frown of dismay or pain.

Then I put the dog aside and went to her.




CHAPTER XII.

ON THE HILL AT SAMAC.


As I stepped forward two persons who had been sitting apart from her
rose and came quickly toward me. In my abstraction I had not noticed
them; but I saw now that one was a priest and the other a matronly
woman of between thirty and forty years of age.

“What do you want? Who are you? This lady is in my care,” said the
priest.

“You saw that the dog knew me for a friend,” I answered.

“That may be, but what do you want?” he asked again.

I looked across to Mademoiselle. She hesitated a moment and then spoke
to the priest.

“It is all right, father. I wish to speak to--him.” There was just a
suspicion of a pause at the last word as though she had been in doubt
how to speak of me.

“But Father Michel--” began the priest in protest, when she interposed
and with a single gesture silenced him.

The incident gave her time to regain self-possession. Outwardly she
grew calm, dignified, and almost cold, but her eyes were burning and in
them I read the reproach I had so dreaded during my ride.

“Why have you come?” she asked, when I could not speak; and her voice
was hard to my ears and accusing. I hung my head.

“I have no answer,” I murmured. “I am sorry; but I can go again.” I had
hoped, like the fool I was, she would have been glad to see me; and
chilled and beaten by this reception, I turned on my heel to leave.

Then Chris made a difficulty. He ran after me so that at the door I had
to turn to send him back.

“Call him,” I said. If she could be hard, so could I; and my face was
as cold and stern as she could have wished her own to be.

But at my look she winced and bent her head. Her interlocked fingers
were strained tightly. It was as though she understood the pain she
caused me and her own tender heart was wrung at the sight. Chris stood
looking up wistfully into my face.

“Go back, Chris. Good-bye, old dog.” He whimpered in protest; for all
the world as though he knew we were to part. “Go, Chris, good dog,” I
said again; and then he went slowly to her and licked the hands which
were straining in such emotion.

She did not look at me and I turned again and went out.

“Burgwan!”

It was barely more than a whisper, but I heard it clearly as I stepped
out of the door. I did not heed it, however. I had done wrong in coming
there at all, and I was sufficiently master of myself now to hold to
my resolve to leave her. I walked toward the spot where I had left
Karasch with the horses; but I had not taken a dozen steps before a
great scurry of feet came after me, and Chris was yelping with glee
and thrusting his nose into my hand and fondling me.

“You shouldn’t have come, Chris. You’re only making it all the harder,
old dog. You must go back. You belong to her now;” and turning to send
him back, I saw her coming toward us.

“I called to you, Burgwan.”

“I thought it best not to hear you, Mademoiselle.”

“I could not let you go like that,” she murmured; and then a pause fell
between us and we stood for a minute or more, neither knowing what to
say.

“Karasch is here, too?” she said at length, seeing him with the horses.

“Yes. He was anxious to know you were really safe.”

“And you?” There was a quick gleam of hope in her eyes that I too had
acted with the same motive.

“That was not my reason. I knew you were safe. I have seen Father
Michel. I came because I am a coward. But I am going.”

“No.” Sharp, clear, decisive and almost peremptory her tone was. And
again we were silent in mutual embarrassment. To relieve it somewhat I
began to move, and we walked away from the little station along a path
leading up a small grass-covered hill and reached the top of it before
we spoke again.

“When does your train leave?”

“At eight.”

“There is an hour yet,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“Yes, there is just an hour,” she repeated, monotonously, as if glad
of something commonplace to say. And again we came to a stop.

“When do you reach Belgrade?” It was a fatuous question; but as I could
not speak of what filled my heart, I had to speak at haphazard.

“I don’t know. We travel all night, I suppose;” and there was an end of
that subject.

“Shall we sit down? The view is lovely,” I said next.

“Oh, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t.” It was a cry right from her heart.
“Can’t you see what you are making me suffer, and you talk to me of
trains and views?”

“We must talk of something,” I replied, a little doggedly.

“Why do you come here?” she asked, turning upon me fiercely. “If you
had been the man I deemed you, you would have done as I asked--after
what I told Father Michel to tell you.”

“I did not give him time to tell me anything. When Petrov brought me
your second letter bidding me wait for you, he told me that you had
already left for this place. I came after you at once.”

“But you said you had seen the priest. Did he not come to you? He
promised.”

“I didn’t wait for him when I learnt you had left. I rode to him to his
house. He said I should cause you pain if I followed you and appealed
to my chivalry and said he had messages for me from you, and urged me
to stay and listen. But I had pain of my own and with an angry laugh I
rode away after you.”

“That was your view of chivalry?”

“Yes; that was my view of chivalry. I told you I came because I was
a coward. I am. I see it now. And you may as well know me for what I
am.” I spoke bitterly, stung by her scornful words, and found a curious
pleasure in avowing my unworthiness. “I have forced myself upon you,
you see; forced myself like a brute and a----”

“Oh, don’t,” she interposed, putting up a hand in protest, and turning
away, walked to a fallen tree and sat down upon it. I followed and
threw myself on the ground near and waited for her to speak. She sat
thinking awhile and then said slowly:

“Things must be made plain between us, Burgwan. I planned to leave you
in Poabja.”

“Father Michel told me as much.”

“It was for the best, so. I knew that when once I was in Poabja he
would be able to help me.”

“And my help would be no longer needed.”

“I am glad you are angry. It helps me,” she answered, quietly; and so
silenced me. “You remember I told you I had nothing to fear there; and
I would have told you why, but that I was afraid I could not see him
first and so warn him what not to tell you about me. That was why I
rode on into the town, meaning to find him out by myself. He is from
Belgrade, and, of course, knows me. I meant him to help me slip away
while detaining you on some pretext.”

“Others did that for him,” I put in drily.

“You were not hurt, were you?”

“No, but you might have been.”

“I was not. By a happy chance Father Michel met me while I was in the
hands of the people and had asked them to take me to him. He rescued me
at once and took me to his house. I told him then about you and he gave
orders for your release. Then word was brought that you had threatened
to take Petrov’s life, and I wrote you that letter asking you to remain
where you were for two hours. This would have given me time to get
right away; and I was writing you another letter, when Petrov came back
with yours. We detained him while I left, and I arranged with Father
Michel to tell you all you wished to know about me.”

“You arranged it all very cleverly, Mademoiselle,” I said angrily, as
I rose. “I am sorry I upset your plans. I owe you an apology. I offer
it now.” I bowed with affected ceremoniousness and added like a brutal
cad, in my anger: “I was a fool, of course, to have looked for further
consideration.”

Her answer was a look, no more; but as I met her eyes my face flushed
with the shame she made me feel for my brutality. I felt I could have
torn my tongue out could the words have been unspoken. I turned and
covered my flaming cheeks with my hands and walked away down the hill.

“Burgwan! Burgwan!” she called, and when I did not stop came after me
and laid her hand on my shoulder. I shook it off impatiently, like a
petulant child, and she placed herself in my path.

“Burgwan! Is it possible that that is how it seemed to you? My God!”

I took my hands from my face and saw that hers was white and strained.

“Let me go,” I cried.

“Not like that. Not with that thought,” she said, her lips trembling.

“Let me go. I am not fit to look at you.”

“Not with that thought of me,” she repeated.

“Let me go,” I cried, for the third time passionately. “Or I will not
answer for myself.”

“Not with that thought of me,” she repeated again. “I cannot. Do you
really think so of me?”

“My God, how could I? I love you with my whole heart.” The avowal
burst from me by an uncontrollable impulse, and I stood shaken by the
vehemence of my own passion and looked for her to shrink from me.

But instead she smiled softly and with maddening sweetness as she
murmured my name.

“Ah, Burgwan; now you know.”

I seized her hands to draw her to me. But this she resisted, though she
left them in mine, and as I looked into her eyes I saw the tears there.

“I have been punished, Burgwan,” she said as she smiled through her
tears.

“You love me, then?”

She met my look without faltering, smiling on through her tears, and
made a brave effort to choke back her emotion, until her head drooped
slowly.

“You must not ask me that, Burgwan. You must know all the truth now.
Poor Burgwan. Oh, I think my heart is breaking.” The last was little
more than a sigh, and taking her hands from mine she went back up the
hill to the tree and sat down again.

Seeing her sorrow, Chris went to her and whined and put his head in her
lap; the beast loved her well nigh as much as I did, and her trouble
grieved him as it grieved me, I think. She threw her arms round his
neck and laid her head to his in response to his dumb offer of sympathy.

In this way some minutes passed, and I knew without words from her
all the reason of her wish to leave me. That wild thought of mine had
been right. It was from her own heart she had been flying; and she was
suffering now the pain I could have spared her but for my insensate
selfishness.

I knew that there were obstacles which she believed to be insuperable
between us, and I had driven her to this admission of her love as the
preface to telling me the reasons why it was impossible.

But in the same moment I vowed they should not come between us. Nothing
should do that except her own will; and if these difficulties could be
overcome by any means within my reach, my life should be devoted to
beating them down.

There was something or someone to fight now; and she was a prize worth
fighting for, with all the man that was in me; and while the sight of
her pain moved and distressed me beyond words, I could no longer feel
sorry I had come after her to Samac.

She loved me; and the knowledge of love may have a setting of pain
and sorrow and yet be well gained and rightly gained. Our hearts had
answered one to the other; and despite the pain, it was well that each
should know the truth.

I put away all the signs of passion and fastened them down with the
clamps of resolution. I would win her yet, let the case be desperate as
it would. I could wait for such a victory; and while waiting, fight to
hold the love I had already won.

Presently, when she had become less agitated, she called me.

I let her see at once that I had chosen my course.

“I don’t mind what you are going to tell me, it will make no
difference,” I said as I sat by her side.

She smiled but shook her head. “You do not know yet,” she answered. “It
is hopeless and impossible.”

“You do not know me, or you would not use that word.”

“I remember what you said about that on the hill this morning; but
this--I am so sorry, Burgwan.” She paused and then said very steadily:
“I am the promised wife of another man.”

The words hit me hard, each with a sting of its own. I had looked for
anything but this; and I needed all my resolution not to wince and shew
the pain they inflicted, but to meet her steady gaze with one equally
steady. I succeeded and forced a smile as I answered.

“I had not expected that,” I said, quietly. “But in fact I don’t think
I know what I did expect. In any case there is a great difference
between a wife and a promised wife, Mademoiselle.”

“I shall be his wife within the present month.”

“That gives us a fortnight or three weeks. The month is only a week
old.”

“You do not understand.”

“If you tell me that you love another man, I shall----”

“Don’t,” she interposed with a gesture.

“It is not the coward who says this, and now it is you who do not
understand me. I am not making love to you. I will never do that unless
I can do it honourably; and that cannot be while you are promised to
another man. But until you tell me that your heart is given to another,
I shall not cease to hope and will not cease striving to win you.”

She listened to me and caught at my words. She lifted her head and
with an air of half-defiant pride she made a great effort to look me
straight in the eyes and take up my challenge.

“I do love--” But she could get no farther; her head fell, and she
cried, “You would shame me, Burgwan.” I cried with intense earnestness:

“God forbid that I should do that, Mademoiselle. I wish I could make it
all easier for you. But this is life to us both and nothing will serve
but truth and candour.”

She did not answer this for some moments, but sat thinking intently,
her face averted from me; and presently I said: “People have been in
this plight before, and have come out of it.”

She took no notice at first and then turned with a sad, sweet smile.

“You must not make this too hard for me. I owe you so much----”

“Say nothing of that, please, or you will silence me altogether,
Mademoiselle,” I interposed, quickly.

“Do you forget what I told you--there would be no Mademoiselle in
Belgrade. I am the Princess Gatrina, betrothed to Prince Albrevics,
next in succession to the Servian throne.”

I tried to take it with a smile as I had before taken the news of her
betrothal; but I could not. I could not even find a word to reply. I
just sat staring out in front of me yet seeing nothing. I was like a
man stricken dumb by a sudden calamity--helpless, numbed and beaten.

I must have turned deathly white, for all the blood in my body seemed
to have rushed to my heart which beat with great lurching thumps
against my ribs and shook my whole body. Then my head where I had been
struck began to throb in response to the wild hammer of the pulse, and
I grew dizzy and faint. My breath came with difficulty and I had to
grip the tree with strenuous hands lest I should fall from it.

“It was this I asked Father Michel to tell you,” she said presently.

I heard her, of course; but her voice sounded far away and apart from
me. Much as though the barrier between us had become substantial and
she were speaking from far on the other side of it.

At length I managed to get to my feet and to pace up and down, winning
the fight against my reeling senses and gathering up the fragments of
my scattered resolution. The first sign of my victory was a feeling of
blind, bitter anger with myself for having shewn such weakness before
her.

“You must not judge me by this exhibition,” I said, as a sort of
apology. “My head pained me for a moment. That’s all; I’m better now
again.”

But her pitying eyes shewed that she understood.

“I am so sorry.” Just conventional words they were; but the look and
the tone told me how straight from her gentle heart they came and how
intensely she was feeling. “You are ill. Sit down again.” She did not
use any name now, and I noticed the omission. I was no longer Burgwan;
and already the restraint of our altered relations was making itself
felt. But she moved as if to make place for me on the fallen tree.

“I am not ill now, thank you; and I think it is time for you to go.” I
glanced at my watch. “Yes, it is quite time.”

She sat on a moment, her eyes closed, and then sighed deeply and rose.
Chris got up with her and she bent down and fondled him.

“Good-bye, Chris, dear, faithful friend, good-bye,” she murmured, and
kissed his head.

“You will not take him?” I asked.

“Not now. No. I--I cannot. I should think of--of this.” Then with a
smile: “He will be so much happier with you.” She stooped and kissed
him again.

“It is better so, perhaps.” I said. “But just as you will.”

She was very quiet and calm now, and turning from the dog, she held out
her hand to me, with a brave smile.

“Good-bye. You have not told me how to address you.”

I took the white trembling fingers, and held them a moment with a
slight pressure, which was returned.

“It is only Burgwan who bids you good-bye,” I said.

“It is better so. It is only Burgwan whom I can remember.”

She paused a moment, her eyes wistfully on mine, and then impulsively
held out her hand again.

This time I was carrying it to my lips when I remembered, checked
myself, and let it fall. She was trembling violently, and her breathing
was deep and laboured. As I loosed her hand I heard her catch her
breath; and looking up I saw she was very white, the lips were almost
bloodless as she bit them in the battle with her agitation.

We stood thus looking into one another’s eyes for some seconds.

Poor little woman, she was finding it very hard; and a fierce yearning
came upon me to clasp her to my heart and urge her to let love have its
way and trust herself to the care of my love.

But it was her moment of weakness, and one of us two must be strong. I
believe she knew by love’s instinct the thought that thus rushed upon
me, for her hands were half raised and a great flush of colour spread
over her pale cheeks.

I stepped back and dropped my eyes to the ground. There was a
half-smothered sob, the brush of her skirts, the light touch of her
foot-fall on the path; and when I lifted my head she had gone, hurrying
down the hillside, and Chris was looking after her and then back at me
whining in doubt.

I watched her go, hoping she would turn her head; but she held on
steadily and was nearing the bottom when Chris gave a short bark and
scampered after her at a mad gallop, reaching her just before a bend in
the path would have hidden her.

I hoped she would take him with her; but she did not. She stopped and
petted him, letting him fawn upon her in his loving way, and stooped
and kissed him, and then I saw her point up the hill toward me.

He hesitated to obey her, came a few steps, stopped and ran back to
her. She petted him again, and again ordered him back. He looked up
in her face as if in dire doubt; and then came slowly toward me, but
only to stop and turn again. She repeated the gesture; and this time he
drooped his tail and came on.

She watched him; and presently looked higher up to me. I waved my hand,
but she gave no answering signal; and before the dog reached me, she
had passed round the bend in the path and was gone.

I sat down on the fallen tree where we had been together and leant my
face in my hands, overcome by a deadening sense of utter desolation and
dreary loss. This at first shut out all other thoughts.

But not for long. If the barrier between us was so infinitely greater
than my worst fears had conceived that on first learning it I had been
whelmed and staggered by the blow, I had gained another knowledge. She
loved me; and with that priceless vantage on my side I should be a
coward indeed to be daunted by any obstacles.

She loved me; and when I rose, my resolution was set. I would fight on
to the end to win her, let who else and what else stand in my path.




CHAPTER XIII.

PREPARING FOR THE CAMPAIGN.


I don’t know any place where money talks with such effect as in the
southeast of Europe; and I made it talk for all it was worth during the
week that I was getting ready to go to Belgrade.

I reckon that when you want to gain an end the chief means are to know
quite definitely what you want, to grip on it with all your teeth,
to pay liberally for what you must know to gain it, and to hold your
tongue and let the other man do the chattering. You may also at need
have a stalking horse.

I used one now in the campaign to win Gatrina. I was hit very hard
when she told me the barrier between us was no less than her chance
of succeeding to the Servian throne; but I wasn’t knocked out. On the
contrary, the bigness of the barrier soon ceased to frighten and began
to attract me. I meant to win her; and to go to Belgrade to do it. But
I shut that purpose away in the strongest safe in my thoughts with a
time lock which would only open to let it out when the fitting moment
arrived. What I said was that I was going to Belgrade in regard to a
big loan which that little kingdom was just then particularly anxious
to float.

It served me well. Any man who was going to put his money into such
a venture would naturally want to know things; and, if some of
the points on which I sought information did not seem to have any
connection, there were plenty of people ready to give it, and none to
bother with my motives, so long as I chose to foot the bills.

I was well served by my agents, and inside the week I knew far too
much to let me dream of trusting a nickel to the Servian exchequer,
but quite enough to enable me to go to Belgrade and play the part
of a representative of a group of American capitalists with amiable
financial intentions.

I knew other things, too. Secrets, many of them, about intrigues that
were in progress against the Servian rule and government. And a nice
mess of unhealthy pottage they made. One thing I had been particularly
urgent to discover--the character of Prince Albrevics. It was anything
but cleanly. He was one of those men who learn the commandments pretty
thoroughly by breaking every one of them consistently, and then sigh in
_blase_ regret that, as there are only ten of them, they have to stoop
to repetition in order to live comfortably.

My money began to talk that same evening in Samac.

Soon after Gatrina had started on her journey, I surprised the depot
folk at Samac with a request for a special train. I looked a pretty
object to travel special, no doubt; and at first they laughed and
were for hustling me out of the place as a lunatic. But I soon had
them hustling with a very different purpose. Money did it. And inside
of five minutes the station master himself, a lean hungry looking
Austrian, had put himself absolutely at my disposal and was working
all he knew to figure out the best means of getting me through to
Vienna.

I said I would start in an hour and a half, and having sent a wire in
cypher to my agent in Vienna to help matters on at that end, I went to
Karasch, and with him rode back to Poabja to get the priest’s help in
straightening things out in the matter of that Austrian officer.

He did not give me a very pleasant reception.

“You have been to Samac?” he asked.

“I have just come from there.”

“Then why do you come to me?” he asked with cold austerity.

“Not to say I’m sorry for having gone there, but to get you to render
me a service.”

“You have seen--” he paused, and I filled in the words for him.

“The Princess? Yes.”

“Did she send you to me?”

“No.”

“I can do nothing for you,” he answered, as if to close matters.

Then I let the money talk. I counted out the sum which I thought would
be necessary for paying a search party and also such an amount as I
guessed he would be glad to have for his church and his poor; and laid
them on the table in two heaps.

“This is for the church and your poor; and this is for you to disburse
for me;” and I described very briefly what I wanted done.

“Are you thinking to bribe me?”

“Nothing of the kind. The Princess is involved in this matter of the
Austrian, and for her sake as well as mine the thing must be arranged.
She knows what passed at the camp and would, of course, testify if
necessary. But I can take care of myself when I get to Vienna; and I am
going there to-night by special train.” I added the last detail as an
impressionist money argument.

“Who are you?”

“I am an American citizen; and nothing else matters just now. This is
more for the Princess Gatrina than for me. She had to be saved, and I
couldn’t do it with kid gloves on.” He thought over this.

“It is either a right or a wrong thing you are asking of me. If right I
do not desire to be paid for it; if wrong, I am not to be bribed to do
it;” and he pushed back toward me the money I had offered him for his
church.

“It’s clean money,” I said, getting up. “You needn’t be afraid. Keep it
untouched until you are satisfied it is clean and then use it, or not,
as you please. I should like to have a report of what you do.”

“To whom shall I send it?”

“To me. You heard my name--Burgwan--and can send to that name under
cover to this address in Vienna;” and I wrote the name of a man so well
known that he started.

“Baron Burndoff, the great banker.”

“Yes, the banker,” I repeated; “and my friend.”

“I don’t understand it,” he murmured, half to himself.

“There is one other little favour you might render me. I need badly a
fresh suit of clothes. Could you tell me how to get one?”

“I do not furnish disguises, sir,” he answered, so curtly that I almost
smiled, as I retorted, suavely:

“I am sorry to have caused you to say discourteous things.”

He drew himself up. “I am not concerned for your feelings. I am acting
for the Princess Gatrina;” and he bowed stiffly and formally to dismiss
me. But I noticed that he kept both the sums of money; and I went out
satisfied that he would do what was necessary and I was well pleased at
the result.

On the ride back to Samac I made a discovery. I was somewhat at a loss
what to do with Karasch. Staunch and brave he was undoubtedly; but
there was very much of the rough diamond about him. I could not quite
see how he was going to fit himself into the routine of my service.

“What would you like to do, Karasch?” I asked him.

“Follow you and serve you,” he replied simply and promptly.

“I don’t think you quite understand what that implies; and I wish you
to do so. I live thousands of miles away, in America; and I expect to
return there soon.”

“When you have done with me, you can turn me away. I am your man.”

“You are too good a fellow for me to turn you away. But the life I live
is not like that in the camp yonder. I’ve had as much of that just now
as I want. Life in a city is a very different thing and you might find
it cramping.”

“Do you wish me to leave you? You have but to speak.”

“You don’t understand me. I owe you a debt which nothing I can do for
you will ever repay. But I can do something toward it. If you can think
of any kind of life you’d like to lead, I’ll see that you have the
chance. If you’d like to be gentleman at ease, I’ll find you the means.”

“A gentleman at ease? What’s that?”

“To have enough money to live upon without working for it.”

He swore good humouredly, and asked with a laugh: “Do you think I want
to do nothing?”

“Well, if you’d like to work I’ll buy you a house and some land for you
to cultivate, and you can choose where.”

“I have chosen.”

“Well?”

“To serve you,” he replied, earnestly.

“You must think a heap of me in that case,” I laughed.

“I do,” he said, in just the same grave, decided tone.

“I’m afraid you won’t like the city life, Karasch.”

“If I don’t I can leave it. But I’ve lived in one.”

“Where?”

“Belgrade.”

“Are you a Serb then? Georgev said you were Bosnian.”

“I am a Serb; and Georgev is a fool.”

“So you’ve lived in Belgrade, have you?” I said as a thought occurred
to me. Did he know who Gatrina was? “How did you come to change so
toward--toward Mademoiselle?”

“She told me something about herself when you got that crack on the
head.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“She made me promise not to speak.”

I had been pretty blind, it seemed.

“Do you know who she is?”

“No. Only that she’s a great lady in Belgrade.”

“Did she tell you how she fell into the hands of those men?”

“No; she does not know. She was carried off and believed she was in the
hands of the brigands, and that they would hold her for a ransom. But I
could find out.”

“How?”

“I know Belgrade and I know the friends of the men with her.”

“How would you get the information?”

“Quickest to buy it.”

Money was to talk again. “How much?” I asked.

“They were to have three thousand gulden if they got her to Maglai. Not
getting a kreutzer, they’ll be ready to sell the whole scheme for less
than half.”

“Would you go to Belgrade?”

“I’ll go anywhere you send me.”

“You shall go there at once and wait for me. I shall be there in about
a week. I am going first to Vienna; and you must use the interval
to get this information for me. Lose no time and pay whatever is
necessary. I’ll give you some money and send you more. But, mind, we
must have the truth--whatever it costs.”

“They know me too well to deceive me,” he answered. “I shall have it
all in less than a week; and have the men as well, at your service, if
you want them.” And so it was settled.

Money had talked when we reached Samac, and the special was ready for
us. I took Karasch with me as far as Maria-Theresiopel, where I was to
catch the mail to Vienna, and he to get the train to Belgrade; and on
the journey I discussed the matter with him fully and gave him such
directions as were necessary.

“Mind, not a word about me until we meet in Belgrade,” was my last
parting injunction; and for the rest of the journey I slept almost
until Vienna was reached.

A very full week was the week that followed; and money was talking
every minute of it, while I gathered the information I needed and
pieced it together for the campaign I had before me.

It was just a big bluff I put up about that Servian loan; and played
it well enough to convince all who came near me that I meant it right
along. It was easy to prove that I and those who were behind me in the
States had the dollars and could put them on the table. That was true;
but the bluff was to make folks believe me soft enough to accept the
security and vouch for it to others.

My attitude was that of the typical Missouri man. “Show me” was my one
text. “Prove to me the thing is sound, and I’ll find the money right
now;” and the very strenuousness of the efforts to persuade me was in
itself enough to have made even a plunger suspicious.

But I kept a very stiff upper lip; and when I raised difficulties,
hinted at concessions that should be made, and asked for facts in
regard to other matters, I was at last referred to Belgrade direct.
This was what I wanted; and I consented to go there; but not without
making a show of reluctance.

In the meantime I heard from Father Michel that he had been successful
in arranging all the difficulties in connection with the affair at the
camp. The Austrian official had exaggerated matters to me that night in
declaring there were dying men there. No one had died; and the injured
men had first been so frightened with the threat of prosecution for
their part in the abduction that the money I had left for them had been
accepted with very grateful surprise.

Captain Hanske had very naturally resented his rough handling, and,
breathing many threats of what his government would do, had forwarded a
very furious report to Vienna.

His superior was dining with me the day after the report was received,
and had done himself very well indeed when he referred to the matter.

“You know a priest named Father Michel in Poabja, an out-of-the-way
hole in Bosnia, don’t you, Mr. Bergwyn?” he said with a very suggestive
smile.

I affected to think. “Poabja? Poabja? Whereabouts is it?”

“A few miles from Samac--the point on the frontier where the line ends;
and where one might at a pinch get a special train; if for instance
one was in a hurry to leave the district.”

He intended me to know by that, of course, that my movements had been
traced.

“I think I had a friend who once went there,” I replied.

“This may be about him;” and he pulled out the report and gave it
me and took another cigar and a fresh drink, as I glanced through
the paper. It was a duly garbled official misdescription of what had
occurred that night and represented the captain as having fought
valiantly against great odds until he had been overpowered.

“He seems to be a valiant fellow, this agent of yours,” I said. “And
this--how is he called? Burgwan, is it?--must be a desperate character?”

He laughed. “Singular name, isn’t it? Very much like yours.”

“Now you mention it, so it is. But, of course, it isn’t my name;” and I
smiled in my turn.

“Of course not. A strange story, though. Do you think your--friend
would know anything about it?”

“I shouldn’t be in the least surprised. I’ll find out. By the way, your
man seems to have been roughly handled. Don’t you think he ought to be
promoted in some way?”

“Promotion is slow, you see. Do you think you could do anything for
him?” he asked, as if the idea had just occurred to him; and smiled
again slyly.

“I don’t see how it affects me. Wait, I have an idea. I can tell you
how you can do it, and make a pile for yourself at the same time. This
camp on the hills he speaks of must be the spot where my friend went
prospecting about some mine deposits. He told me there was a fortune
waiting there for the man who developed the thing; but he knows the
difficulty which a foreigner would have in working it, and has given it
up. Why not get hold of the concessions yourself; they can be had for a
song; and put this man in charge to carry on the work?”

“It would take money.”

“Oh, there would be no difficulty about that if the thing had official
influence behind it--such for instance as yours. The thing’s right. The
ore’s there, I know that.”

“_You_ know it?” he put in quickly.

“I’d trust my friend’s judgment as freely as my own.”

“You say a fortune? How much?”

“Oh, anything from half a million gulden upwards.” I spoke airily,
as though a few hundred thousand gulden were a matter of comparative
insignificance.

He smoked for a while in silence, his brows knitted thoughtfully:

“Would your friend go into it?” he asked.

“It’s the sort of thing I should take up myself right now if I had your
influence with me,” I replied.

“You Americans are a wonderful people, Mr. Bergwyn. We’ll speak of this
to-morrow. I’ll think it over.”

“It’s worth doing, not only thinking over;” and as I returned him
his report I added: “And this man really deserves some sort of
compensation.”

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “He shall have an official
letter praising his zeal; and we shall hear no more of that part of it.”

We did talk it over the next day and we fixed up a working arrangement.
Then he spoke to me about the Servian loan.

“You’re not going into it, are you?”

“They promise some valuable concessions.”

He paused and said deliberately: “If you’ll take my advice, it
is--don’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s too risky.”

“You’ve another reason. What is it?”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand Balkan politics.”

“You mean your government are against the loan?”

“Servia might buy arms, or build railways with the money--neither
course to our interests, you know.”

“A bit rough on Servia, isn’t it?”

“We have to think of ourselves, you see. Besides, it isn’t safe for a
little country like that to develop too quickly. There’s Russia, too.
Two big powers, both closely concerned. Take my advice--don’t.”

“I’m going to Belgrade,” I answered.

“By all means go. You’ll see things then for yourself.”

“What would happen if she got the loan?”

“She won’t get it, Mr. Bergwyn. The government is tottering now--and
perhaps the throne. Anything can happen in Belgrade at any time--except
the floating of a loan.”

“I shall go to Belgrade. We’re ready to carry risks, you know, when a
thing’s right.”

“Oh, yes, by all means go, as I said. They’ll make much of you; but
remember when you’re there what I’ve said, in confidence, and--don’t.”

I could judge by the insistence upon this advice that he thought I was
still undecided; and as that was just the impression I wished to leave,
I said no more.

Two days later I left for Belgrade, where, as my friend the minister
had told me, I found them quite ready to make much of me, as a sort of
possible financial saviour of the country. I soon saw the influence
which I could wield even in regard to the real purpose which took me to
the capital.

But even within a few hours of my arrival, and while I was disposed to
shake hands with myself for the adroit course which I was managing to
steer, I met with an ugly check--most unwelcome and disconcerting.

A large house had been placed at my disposal, and I had breakfasted on
the morning after my arrival and was planning my movements for the day,
when my man, Buller, brought me a card.

“The Baroness von Tulken.”

I remembered the name. It had been given me as that of a woman of much
influence at the court who was said to be taking an important part
in political affairs. But I could think of no reason why she should
flounce down on me almost at the moment of my arrival. I hesitated
therefore whether to see her. But I decided I would. If time is not too
pressing, it is generally best to see people at once and get at the
kernel of their business in a couple of minutes, instead of letting
them worry you with correspondence.

There was the chance, too, that under the circumstances she might have
some information to give or sell; and I was speculating who she might
be and what she wanted, as I went to her.

But I knew her the moment my eyes fell on her, before I saw her face;
and I started and caught my breath in surprise and some dismay. I
could have wished her anywhere in the world except in Belgrade at that
particular juncture.

She was looking out of the window as I entered, and when she turned
gave me one quick glance.

“Ah, then it _is_ you, Chase,” she cried, as she came toward me both
hands extended and uttered my Christian name, with a smile on her
handsome face, as though the meeting were just the loveliest thing that
ever happened for us both.




CHAPTER XIV.

ELMA.


A large, long room on the first floor of a house in Prague; the
furniture, once rich, now sadly worn; the lights dim except over one
table where cards were scattered on the green cloth as they had been
left by the players; close to it, partly in shadow, a second table with
drink and glasses; near it an overturned chair; away in the gloom a
cowering figure on a settee with old hands pressed strenuously on the
hidden face; and in the centre a queenly woman, beautiful as a picture,
white-faced, distraught and trembling, but struggling to appear defiant
as she faced a boy of nineteen who was regarding her with looks in
which hot love, horrified repugnance and disgust struggled with the
bewildering pain of the knowledge of her unworthiness. She had been
caught red-handed in the flagrant use of the tricks of a common card
cheat; and the rest had gone, with flouts and scoffs and jeers, leaving
the two, the boy, face to face with the sudden consciousness of her
shame, and suffering as only a boy in his calf love can suffer: the
woman, scared and confused, but wrathful and relying defiantly upon the
power of her beauty.

I was the boy; and Elma Dreschkel, now the Baroness von Tulken, was
the woman. We had not met since that night; but the picture flashed
back upon my memory, resistlessly and instantaneously, as I felt once
more upon me those dark, dangerous, and strangely compelling eyes of
hers.

“You are surprised, of course; but you will not refuse me your hand,”
she said, as I hesitated to take hers.

I took her hand. “Yes, I am surprised,” I answered.

“You are not changed much. Older, broader, more manly, of course, and
much handsomer, too.”

“The change in my looks may not be very great.” It was a fatuous thing
to say, for it gave her a chance which her ready wit seized at once.

“I have not changed even in looks,” she said, with a sigh and droop of
the eyes and a little graceful gesture of the hands. She did herself
less than justice, however. The seven years had ripened her beauty of
form and face; the girl had become a woman; and the woman more than
fulfilled the promise of the girl. She was faultlessly dressed, too,
with exquisite taste; and had achieved that combination of apparent
simplicity and suggestion of costly extravagance after which so many
American women strive not always with success.

She knew I was looking very closely at her and she paused long enough
to give me ample opportunity. Then she glanced up and smiled: hers was
one of the most dangerous smiles ever given to a woman.

“Well?” she asked, as if challenging me. Was she anxious to establish
our relations upon something of the old footing?

“To what do I owe the favour of this visit?” I asked in a formal and
precise tone.

But she only laughed. “Is it a favour, really, do you think? Do you say
that only as a preface to dismissing me?”

“It is, at any rate, as I said, a surprise.”

“Why? Why should it be a surprise that I wished to see you again, and
that hearing a great financier, Chase F. Bergwyn, was coming here, I
rushed here the first moment I could to make sure that it was you?”

“The surprise may be to find you in Belgrade.”

“Oh, yes, that of course--but not that I should wish to see you.” She
had always been clever in turning my words back upon me.

“I am afraid you misunderstand me,” I said after a pause. “I meant to
ask you if there was anything I could do for you?”

“Would you do it, Chase?” she cried with quick daring, flashing her
eyes upon me. “I wonder if you would. I should like to think so.”

“Will you regard the question as put quite formally? This visit is
quite unexpected, and as I am a somewhat busy man just now, my time is
very much occupied.”

“I am still standing,” she answered, unexpectedly.

I placed a chair for her and she sat down, gracefully--she did all
things gracefully--and smiled. “How long can you spare me?” She put the
question lightly, with mockery in every accent.

“I have engagements right through the day. Baroness....”

She interposed with a quick gesture, rose suddenly and looked at
me as if I had insulted her by this use of her title, and her lips
opened as if to give her protest utterance; but she merely sighed and
shrugged her shoulders, and sat down again. A very effective piece of
acting--but no more than acting.

In reply I glanced at the card which I still held in my hand.

“Yes, I married for money and position. What would you have had me do?”
She made the quick question a reproach, speaking in a low, tense tone
as of carefully restrained feeling, with a dash of personal defiance,
paused and then added slowly: “I was deserted by--everyone. Was I to
starve and sink and go on sinking and starving. The Baron was three
times my age. Wealthy, and believed in me and trusted me. When even
those who might have had faith in me”--she paused again as she repeated
the phrase--“even those who might have had faith, turned their backs
upon me, and deserted me, he offered me the shelter of his rank and
riches and name. And even if I had no heart to give him in response,
was I to blame for giving him my hand? Does it lie with you to reproach
me?--you, of all men; you?”

So intense was her tone, so magnetic her influence, and so realistic
her acting that she actually roused in me for the moment the feeling
that in that old time it was I who had wronged her and played the part
of coward now suggested, and not she who had cheated and cozened me in
my boyish infatuation until for years my faith in all women had been
destroyed. Yet I knew that she was that most dangerous of all created
beings--a beautiful woman with brains and without a heart.

“I am not reproaching you,” I answered. “On the contrary, I
congratulate you. I think you acted very prudently.”

“My God,” she cried in an accent of intense suffering; and first
glancing at me with eyes full of sadness and suffering, she bent her
head upon her hand. She was master of many emotions; but the acting
which had fooled the boy in love was powerless to deceive me now.

A pause of some embarrassment followed. What I wished to learn was her
motive in coming to me. She had a strong one, of course. I could gamble
on that.

“Need we pretend?” I asked, at length.

She shivered as though the words hurt her, and then looking up
suddenly, answered with a sort of fierce _abandon_.

“No. No; although God knows it is no pretence that I am agitated at
seeing you again.”

“If you are thus disturbed let me suggest that we postpone the
conversation until you are more self-possessed.”

She drew in her breath sharply with a little shudder, and stretched out
a hand as if in entreaty, then clasped it to her face and appeared to
make a great effort to regain self-restraint.

“Bear with me a moment. This is so strange a meeting. I....” she
stopped, and bit her lip and smiled and sighed.

I watched her quite unmoved by this display. “Yes, it is very strange,”
I said.

Next, as if having regained self-possession and desirous of getting
away from an embarrassing situation, she said, unexpectedly, and
almost crudely: “Won’t you sit down, Cha-- Mr. Bergwyn?” She made the
correction palpable, then added: “I should apologise for my excitement
having betrayed me into calling you by--by the name once so familiar. I
am still liable to impulses.”

I accepted the position thus suggested, sat down and answered in a tone
of conventional compliment: “So beautiful a woman as you, Baroness,
need never think of apologising for anything.”

“At all events I will try not to offend again,” she said lightly. “I
suppose that really I ought not to have come to you in this way, but
have waited until we met. You are so great a man now.”

“You had some reason for coming, of course. Shall we discuss that?”

“Oh, yes, I had a reason; but I find it so hard to explain it now.”
Her manner now was that of a sort of engaging nervousness. “I declare
I could almost wish you were a stranger, Mr. Bergwyn. It would be less
difficult.”

This was my chance and I took it. “You may really regard me as a
stranger, Baroness;” I said, gravely, with emphasis; but she smiled
winningly, intentionally disregarding my meaning, and replied with
great sweetness:

“You were always considerate.” She paused and continued then with a
glance:

“I had my reasons for coming to you, of course. I suppose I may be
frank. In the first place I wished to be sure that you were the Mr.
Bergwyn who knew me before I came to Belgrade.”

Her eyes said more than her words then and I gave the assurance they
sought.

“If I understand you, pray be quite at rest. Since we parted you have
lived your life and I have lived mine--and our memories do not go
behind that new life.” I meant that if she did not wish me to give her
away, I did not want that old boyish intrigue of mine raked up. She was
relieved by the assurance, and could not hide the feeling.

“I was sure of that, of course,” she answered with a scarcely
perceptible sigh of relief. “It does not affect your purpose here.”

“How could it?”

“Of course your agents have been making inquiries about everything
here, and I suppose you know something of my position and influence. I
am a rich woman, Mr. Bergwyn, and stand high in the confidence of many
people in Belgrade.”

“I had heard of the Baroness von Tulken as one enjoying considerable
influence at Court.”

“Yes, I have influence; and even if I had found you a stranger I
intended to place it entirely at your service. Need I say how much more
I should wish to do so, seeing you are who you are.”

“I thought we were not to remember that.”

“How precise you men of business are!” she laughed. “Well, do you
accept my offer?”

“I should be charmed, of course, and if the need arises I shall
instantly remember your promise.”

“Is that a refusal?” she asked swiftly.

“A conditional acceptance rather, is it not?”

“I did not come for conditions. I came for frank acceptance or
rejection of my offer.”

“I arrived but last night,” I reminded her, blandly.

“You are playing with words. What is your object in Belgrade?”

“I think everyone in the capital who knows of my presence knows why I
have come.”

“But I mean your secret object. You have not come here to lend this
money. Englishmen--I beg pardon, even Americans do not act like madmen
in such matters. You know there is no stability in the kingdom, no
security that even your interest would be paid. Why then do you come?
What part are you proposing to play in all the intrigues at present
rife here? Whose side do you take and why?”

“The negotiations for the loan....” I began when she cut me short with
a laugh and waved the words aside.

“What is it you want to buy with your money?”

“Really....”

“I will put it another way,” She interposed again. “Which party are
you with? The army are intriguing against the present dynasty; are you
with them? The Crown is intriguing to secure the next succession for
the Queen’s brother; are you with them? Another party is intriguing to
secure the Princess Gatrina in her rights; are you with them?--with
us, I should say. If you are, then indeed your millions may be safe.”

“I fear I do not understand you. The Queen is responsible for the
betrothal of the Princess to the Prince Albrevics; how then....”

The interposing laugh was now scornful.

“You have indeed much to learn. You will hold what I may say in
confidence?”

“Yes; but without pledging myself to make no use privately of any
information; and I think you should not speak,” I answered after a
pause of doubt whether I could rightly let her speak freely. But she
had no hesitation.

“I will take your word and any risks. I wish you, if you take any
side, to take ours. The Queen’s object in promoting the marriage of
the Princess--as good a girl as ever lived--with such a vile reprobate
as this Albrevics is--what do you think? Nay, you would not see it,
not understanding the cross currents of our matters here. She knows,
as all the country knows--except Gatrina herself, perhaps--that of all
the impossible successors to the throne he is the most impossible.
She does it that Gatrina’s claims may thus be destroyed finally and
Gatrina herself in this clever way removed from the path of the Queen’s
brother.”

“Very smart, very subtle, and very feminine,” I said, with a smile as
though the plan appealed to my appreciation of a really clever move.
“And what is your plan?”

“First, what is your motive in Belgrade? Would you help in so shameful
a scheme against the Princess?”

I affected to consider and then answered with more truth than she knew.

“No, I think I can safely say I should not.”

“I was sure of it,” she cried, triumphantly. “And you would not help
the army in their plans?”

“I do not know them.”

“They can be put in one word--assassination.”

“God forbid that I should deal with such a thing. But you must be mad
to think it.”

She paused and then said slowly with significant emphasis:

“When I know not, and how I know not, but matters will come to that
if the army once have the courage to act. The Queen has some strong
friends, but some terrible enemies; and there is but one way to avert
catastrophe.”

“How is that?”

“By securing the succession to the Princess Gatrina by the only means
which can render it secure.” She fixed her eyes upon me with an intent,
searching look.

“That is your scheme, you mean. How would you do it?” I had no scruple
in questioning her now. I saw that some plan against Gatrina was in the
making, and was ready to go to lengths now to know it.

“By securing her marriage with a man who would be accepted by the
country as a king.”

“And there is such a man?”

“Yes; the Duke Barinski, of Fagodina.”

“I have never heard of him. What claim to the throne can he make?”

She smiled significantly. “He has many. He is connected by descent
with the Karageorgevics, while the Princess represents the Obrenovics.
Together their claim would be incontestable, as it would reconcile and
unite the rival interests. And what is most--he has the support of
Russia. Now you understand.”

“And _your_ motive?”

“The Duke is the head of the family of which I am a humble member.”

“A very beautiful member certainly, and a very useful one, also
certainly; but I should not use the term humble, Baroness. You seem to
have a strong cause, particularly with Russian influence behind. You
think it will succeed?”

“It cannot fail,” she said in a tone of dead conviction.

“And the Princess Gatrina? What are her views?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “In a marriage of State what does it matter
to the bride who the groom may be? She at present trusts the Queen, and
so accepts even such a man as Albrevics.”

“It is all very interesting, but there is one question which a business
man would put--a man looking of course to his own interests only. If
those who are with me in this joined in this scheme, would the Russian
influence go so far as to guarantee the loan?”

“Do you think I can pledge the Russian Government?”

“Scarcely that, perhaps, but in such a case you may have some
influence.”

She laughed very musically. “You are much quicker than you used to be.
Chase--I beg your pardon, Mr. Bergwyn--you think I am a Russian agent.
Well, you are right. I am. My husband, the Baron, was one.”

“Was?”

“He is dead. Of course you know that.”

“Your pardon; I did not. And you told your people, of course, that you
were coming to see me?”

Again she understood me; and again she laughed. “Yes. I told them
it was possible I might have some influence with you--some personal
influence, of course.” She paused and added, slowly: “But I see now
that I was wrong.”

“At any rate I think we may now say we understand each other and this
matter,” I said as I rose.

“You will join us? There is no other way to make your interests safe.
Russian influence is paramount.”

“Forgive me if I hold my decision over. What you have said has greatly
impressed me.” It had, but not quite in the way she may have thought.

“I shall see something of you while you are here?”

“How long I remain is, of course, uncertain,” I answered; and the
evasion displeased her.

“That may mean no. But I must see you. I insist, I do, indeed,
positively insist;” and she laid her hand on my arm and smiled
winningly.

“But I may go over to the Austrian side, whatever that may be. They
may also have eloquent advocates.”

“You may find the Queen’s chief advocate the most difficult to resist.
I think I ought to warn you.”

“Who is that?”

“The Princess Gatrina--a very beautiful girl and very persuasive.”

Fortunately the start I gave passed unnoticed as her eyes were off me
at the moment.

“It seems to be a contest of beautiful women, Baroness,” I said with a
bow.

“It is perhaps fortunate for you, therefore, that you are now only a
business man--with a short memory,” she retorted with a glance which I
affected not to see.

Then an unexpected incident followed. I accompanied her to the door and
as we crossed the hall, Chris was lying there. He got up and she looked
at him and paused.

“That is an enormous dog, Mr. Bergwyn. I do not like big dogs.”

“Chris will not hurt you. He is gentle as he is big--unless on
necessary occasions.”

“You call him Chris?” she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise. “That is
something of a coincidence; I hope it is not an omen,” and she gave me
a keen glance.

“Why a coincidence?”

“I was thinking of the Queen’s advocate--Gatrina. She has had some
adventure in which a dog named Chris took a part. I hope it is not an
omen that you will side with her. I am very superstitious, you know.
We Serbs are.”

But she was not a Serb and was far too sensible to be superstitious.
Besides, there was an expression on her face as she drove away that I
would have given a good deal to have understood.




CHAPTER XV.

DEVELOPMENTS.


I should have reckoned it bad luck to run up against Elma once more
under any circumstances; but it was much worse to find her installed
here in Belgrade, a woman of rank, wealth and influence, in close
touch with the court and with Gatrina, and taking a part in the game
of political intrigue likely to render her a serious opponent to my
purpose.

There was no use blinking at ugly facts, or attempting to hide from
myself that if she came to learn the real purpose of my presence in
Belgrade, she could do me incalculable mischief; and I did not begin to
persuade myself that if the occasion arose she would hesitate to do it.

It was in this wise. In those silly, calf days of my boyish infatuation
I had written the usual wild, high-falutin nonsense to her--and plenty
of it. Pouring out my soul to her, I had thought it then: making an
egregious young ass of myself, I deemed it now; but soulful or asinine,
there were the letters on record against me. Nor could I doubt that if
Elma found me attempting to use my influence with Gatrina against the
plans of the Russian party those letters would be used for all they
were worth to checkmate that influence.

Elma had indeed been clever enough to appeal to me to bury the past
and to hint that she was afraid of my revealing what I knew about her.
But she had meant it more as a bluffing appeal to my sense of honour.
She knew she had little enough to fear from any revelations. They might
damage her Court influence; but the Russian authorities who employed
her would not care a red cent. They would have no inconvenient scruples
so long as she was useful to them. Very probably they knew all about
her already, and had perhaps used the knowledge to give a twist to the
screw which kept her zealous in their service.

I flinched and flushed at the thought of those letters being read by
Gatrina. That must be stopped somehow, and I must get them back into
my possession. But how? I could not see any means at present. Elma was
just an abominably clever woman. She had shewn that by rising to her
present position out of the ashes of that old scandal in Prague; and
I was only too painfully conscious that in any play of wits in such a
matter she would almost certainly outwit me.

Yet disconcerting as was this personal side of the matter, it was not
by any means the most disturbing result of that talk with her.

She had made me realise that the obstacles in my way were vastly
greater than I had reckoned. The whole axis of the position seemed to
have shifted, indeed. I had come to Belgrade with the somewhat vague
notion that by means of my wealth and the knowledge I had gained of the
character of Prince Albrevics, I should be able to stop the proposed
marriage. But that somewhat arrogant assurance was beaten out of me at
a stroke. Money was useless here.

I saw that Gatrina’s marriage was the centre round which two at least
of these ugly schemes of high political intrigue actually revolved. It
was one of the most critical issues of that most critical time; and in
regard to it her happiness and welfare were just the last things to
which anyone concerned gave five cent’s worth of consideration.

The Court scheme meant her sacrifice to such a man as this Albrevics in
order that she might be out of the way of the Queen’s project to secure
the succession for her brother. The Russian plan was scarcely less
treacherous. They were wishing to use her as a counter in order to get
their own puppet on the Throne. No more and no less.

Then there was the third plot--that of the army; and so far as it
concerned Gatrina it threatened to be worse than either of the others.
If it came to a head and Elma’s grim forecast of assassination were
realised, it would be directed against the Obrenovics family as a
whole. Gatrina, as a member of that family, would be in actual personal
danger; for it was difficult to think that one so directly in the line
of succession as she was would be allowed to slip through the meshes of
a net flung wide and drawn in by strong, angry, merciless hands.

I had looked for anything rather than this. But Elma had outlined the
picture; and my own concern for Gatrina soon painted in the details in
lurid and alarmist colours.

I was still groping for the guiding thread in all this tangled skein
of trouble when the first of my appointed visitors was announced, and
I had to assume my role of hard-headed business man in regard to the
proposed loan.

He was a man high up in the Government, and I listened gravely to
his proposals, putting a number of objections much as I had done in
Vienna; and then said that I had heard so much of the instability of
the Government and of plots and conspiracies, that I must take time to
satisfy myself what they all meant.

“You need have no apprehension, Mr. Bergwyn,” he declared blandly. “The
Throne and the Government have never been more secure; and now that the
vexed question of the succession is about to be so happily settled,
there is not the slightest ground for alarm.”

“To be settled how?”

“By the marriage of the Princess Gatrina to Prince Albrevics. All
faction will end with that.”

“And Russia?”

He waved his hands deprecatingly. “Russia will accept the situation.
She always does, when once it is established.”

“But the Queen’s popularity?”

“Was never greater. Her strength is paramount.”

“And her intentions as to her brother’s succession?”

“The merest _canard_--absolutely without foundation.”

“You think Prince Albrevics would be accepted by the country?”

“Personally I regret he is not a--not more discreet. But he will reform
when his responsibilities grow.”

“How many hold that view?”

“He is not popular, it is true; but we Serbs are a peace-loving people
and, when a thing is settled and makes for peace, we accept it and work
for it.”

“And the army?”

“There has been discontent, I know, and certain appointments have been
made by the Crown which have provoked criticism. But the leaders are
loyal and sound. There will be no trouble.”

“I would wish to convince myself at first hand. Whom should I see? I
want the name of a man who knows; and not necessarily a Government man.”

“You can take it from me.”

“That does not mean you would rather I saw no one?”

He flinched at the blunt question very slightly and then smiled.
“Certainly not. I am not so foolish. You have come to convince yourself
and we wish to help you do this. There is, of course, some disaffection
in certain regiments; but on no considerable scale. No man knows the
feeling of the army as a whole better than Colonel Petrosch. And you
can speak to him freely. He is the better man for you to see, perhaps,
because he is not by any means a friend of the Court.”

I remembered the name as one which had been given me by my Austrian
friends in Vienna; and having thus obtained what I wanted, I got rid
of my visitor as soon as possible.

As soon as he had gone I looked up the note I had made about this
Colonel Petrosch and was surprised to find him described as a man
with a strong grievance against the Government, having considerable
influence in the army, and believed to be using that influence against
the Throne.

This looked as though he were the very man I sought, and I resolved to
go to him at once. But I was to have a stroke of good fortune in that
matter. I was ready to start when my servant, Buller, came in.

“There is a rough-looking fellow asking for you, sir, and says you sent
for him. But I thought I’d better tell you first. I told him you were
busy and that he had better write.”

“What name?”

“I couldn’t catch his name, sir. I can’t understand the language; but
it sounded something like Crash.”

I laughed. “Karasch, Buller. Bring him up at once; and be very civil to
him. He wishes to be your fellow-servant.”

Buller’s features were at that moment a study. Well-trained servant
though he was, and correct and phlegmatic as an Englishman could be, it
was now beyond his power to conceal the dismay and disgust he felt at
the prospect.

“Yes, sir,” he stammered at length and turned to go.

“He saved my life, Buller, at the risk of his own; and I think a heap
of him, even if he does lack a little polish.”

“Yes, sir,” he said now in his most correct manner, and went out to
return in a moment. “This way, Mr. Crash,” I heard him say as he opened
the door, and not a trace of feeling was on his stolid face as he
ushered him in.

Karasch was vastly impressed at finding me in such surroundings and
his fine dark eyes rolled about him with a gaze of wonderment and
settled first upon Chris, who got up at his entrance, and then upon
me. I think he was not a little nervous for all his attempt to appear
self-possessed.

“I have done my lord’s bidding,” he said at length.

“Is your arm better, Karasch?”

He started as though the question recalled the old tussle between us.
“It is getting well, my lord.” He felt apparently that I ought to be
addressed by some title.

“Good; then sit down and tell me what you’ve done; and by the way,
don’t call me my lord.”

A glance round the room and a waive of the hand shewed me his thought.
“As you please, Excellency; I am only your servant.”

“Very well, we’ll leave it at that. Now tell me your news.”

“I have seen the friends of the men who took away the lady, and I know
who they were serving. I have also seen her and know who she is.”

“Who hired them?”

“The Duke Barinski of Jagodina, Excellency. She is the Princess
Gatrina--but the men did not know her.”

“Duke Barinski! Are you sure?” I exclaimed. This was news indeed. “Are
you sure, Karasch?”

“I have seen the man with whom he made the bargain. He is at your
service now, Excellency; I have paid him. If you wish to see him, I
will bring him here.”

“All I need is to be quite certain. He would not deceive you?”

“He knows better, Excellency,” answered Karasch, with a dry,
significant smile. “I hold his life here;” and he held out his hand
with fingers and thumb pressed together.

“Tell me all.”

“There is but little to tell, Excellency.” He appeared to derive some
sort of satisfaction from using this title frequently. “I knew where
to go for the information, as I told you; and as soon as I had done
as your Excellency bade me and seen a doctor about my arm, I sought
the men out; they are old companions of mine and, as I had money they
welcomed me. For three days we drank together and I had the story from
three or four of them, both when they were drunk and when sober; and
it was always the same. The Princess was at the great house of the
Baroness von Tulken one evening, and when she wished to leave, she was
put into a carriage not her own with two of the men dressed in her
livery. They drove her by a certain route and at an agreed spot the six
men who were to take her to Maglai stopped the carriage and with a show
of force seemed to compel the coachman to drive away into the country,
two of the men entering the carriage to keep the Princess quiet. They
told her they were brigands; and after some miles they compelled her
to alight and ride with them. They were to take her to Maglai and to
receive one thousand gulden, not three as they told your Excellency.”

“But the witchcraft business, Karasch?”

“The Duke Barinski told them she was a witch, Excellency, who had been
detected and was being sent off privately in this way, because she had
too many friends of influence to be tried openly in Belgrade. Had they
known who she was really, they would have been afraid.”

“Then he risked her very life. They might have killed her.”

“No, Excellency; because not a kreutzer was to be paid to them at
Maglai if the slightest harm was done to her. It was clever.”

“It was devilish,” I said, hotly. “Where in Maglai were they to take
her and who was to pay the money?”

He produced a slip of paper with a name and address upon it. “You can
make inquiries if you wish, Excellency,” he said. “You will find what I
have said is the truth. It is the Duke Barinski’s plotting.”

“You don’t mean he went so far as to see these men himself?”

“He did not declare himself, Excellency; but he was recognised.”

I sat thinking a moment over the news.

“Have you any guess as to his motive?”

“No; I could have none; nor could my friends,” he answered, shaking his
head.

“Would your men bear this story out even to his face?”

“Why not? They are now in your service--that is, if you wish me still
to pay them.”

Money was not to be so entirely useless after all, it seemed. “Yes, pay
them, Karasch. Have you any money left?”

“I have brought it;” and he produced the greater part of what I had
given him.

“You had better keep it.”

“It will be safer with you. You can give it me as I need it,
Excellency;” and he laid it on the table.

“Take what you want;” and he took a very moderate sum which he declared
would be enough. I told him then that for the present he had better not
live in my house but was to come night and morning for instructions,
and to let me know how to communicate with him instantly in the event
of my needing him in any pressing emergency.

His news gave me plenty of matter to chew, and I sat turning it over
and over in my mind. I saw Elma’s pro-Russian hand in it plainly; and
although Karasch and his companions could make no guess at the motive
for the abduction, I could make one.

Had they succeeded in the scheme of getting Gatrina to Maglai they
would have kept her there until she had consented to marry Duke
Barinski. Then their plan to secure the succession would have come into
the field of practical politics; the Queen would have been quietly
checkmated; Russian influence would have openly backed up the united
claim of the Duke and Gatrina; and the crooked path would suddenly have
been made smooth.

Gatrina’s escape from her guards had alone prevented this and her safe
return to Belgrade had no doubt completely disconcerted the schemers.

But they were not of the kind to put aside the plan because of this
check and we might look for some other move from them equally daring,
cunning and far-reaching.

They had acted cleverly indeed, and had blinded their tracks
successfully. The Duke had kept carefully in the background and Elma
had so far retained the confidence of Gatrina as actually to learn from
her some details of her escape.

I did not forget her reference to the “adventure in which a dog called
Chris” had played a part; and I might gamble on it that, if they
discovered the part I had taken, I should soon find myself the object
of some of their attentions. And they were antagonists whom anyone
would be prudent to take very seriously.

Complications were developing at a merry rate; but Karasch’s news had
suggested a way by which one of Gatrina’s suitors at any rate might be
driven from the field.

This was to face the Duke himself, tell him what I knew, confront him
with the men he had employed, and see what the effect on him would
be of a threat to reveal the whole plot to the Court. The Queen’s
readiness in dealing drastically with her enemies would frighten him
surely enough; and I knew the Russian tactics too well not to feel
assured that, if once he were discovered and disgraced, they would drop
him instantly in favour of some shrewder tool.

Then came another development. A chamberlain from the Court brought me
an invitation to a reception for the following night at the Palace;
and was at some pains to make it clear that it was to be held out of
compliment to myself and “those other illustrious Magnates of America”
who were associated with me.

Money was talking loudly enough in that, at any rate; and I sent him
away with an assurance of my appreciation of the honour, expressed
in such flowery terms as occurred to me at the moment. Even as I was
speaking to him my thoughts slipped back to what Elma had said about
the “Queen’s advocate.”

I should meet Gatrina again. In a moment a hundred qualms of doubt were
started as to how she would receive me, rendering me uneasy, restless,
and almost nervous.

What would she say? How would she look? Would the brute she was going
to marry be present? Would she reproach me for thus again forcing
myself on her? Would she see through the flimsy hypocrisy of my
pretended financial mission? Would she give me away to the Court?
Should I get a chance of telling her of the danger in which she stood?
And then, somehow, that scene on the hill at Samac a week before, came
into my thoughts and I sat smoking, mooning and dreaming.

Gatrina seemed so desperately far removed from me now and the opposing
forces were gathering such strength that my confidence of success gave
ominous signs of wavering. The prospect of winning her looked like no
more than a forlorn hope; and although I was as determined as ever to
fight on until I was actually beaten, I felt a cold chill of doubt
settling down upon me.

Buller entered, breaking my reverie just at that moment, to bring me a
card. I took it impatiently.

“Captain Nikolitch, from Colonel Petrosch.”

I uttered an involuntary exclamation of delight. My visitor was a man
who had been my close and intimate friend in that past time in the
Balkans; and coming as he did from Colonel Petrosch, he was just the
man of all others able to help me. No one could have been more welcome
at such a juncture.

“Show him right here, Buller,” I said, gleefully, standing up to
welcome him cordially.

The pendulum had swung right over suddenly and the luck was once again
on my side.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE ARMY’S PLANS.


Nikolitch was as glad to meet me as I to welcome him, and our mutual
greeting was very warm and cordial.

“I could scarcely believe it was really you, Bergwyn,” he said, when we
were through with the hand-shaking and had lighted our cigars. “That
was why I wrote on my card that I came from Colonel Petrosch. I can
scarcely believe it now, I think;” and he smiled. He was a year or
so older than I; a fair, handsome, frank-faced fellow with a winning
manner and a delightful smile.

“It’s a bit like a fairy tale, perhaps. How did you hear of me?”

“What a question, my dear fellow, when you’re the centre of financial
attraction just now in half a dozen circles. And do you mean to tell me
you’re a millionaire? Why, in those jolly old days you were as poor as
I was and, worse luck, still am.”

“They were jolly old days, weren’t they? I am just delighted to see
you again. Yes, I’m a millionaire; and if you’d done as I wanted you
to then, gone out with me to the States, you would be one too. I had a
toughish time of it for a year or two; and it was all luck at the end.
Nothing else. I got hold of a mine which had broken the hearts of the
men who had been working it with me. When they gave up in despair I got
it for next to nothing and held on; and inside a month came on the gold
by pure accident just where we hadn’t looked for it. My perseverance
had paid me and I stepped out of the mine that day as rich as a man
need wish to be. That’s all.”

“You were always a dogged beggar,” he said.

“I don’t like being beaten.”

“The same thing another way round,” he laughed. “And so you’ve come
back to the old hunting ground to take a hand here as a big financier.
You’ll have to be careful, Bergwyn. This is no gold mine.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to tell; nothing much. I entered the army here,
and having some influence, got my captaincy sooner than I deserved it.
I like it well enough; but I wish I’d gone with you. I’d rather be a
millionaire.”

“Why does Colonel Petrosch send you to me?”

“I’m a favourite of his a bit, and of others. They’ve let me know
things, you see; trust me, I suppose; and all that. When I heard your
name mentioned I pricked up my ears, and told Petrosch I fancied I knew
you. He wants you and your money bags on the side of the army in all
this mess of messes; and picked me out as a sort of informal ambassador
to negotiate with you. Though why the devil you want to meddle with
things here beats me.”

“I had the Colonel’s name given me this morning as a man who could
tell me the hang of things in regard to the intentions of the army. I
suppose he could.”

Nikolitch laughed. “If he can’t no one can, Bergwyn. But who sent you
to him?”

I told him the name of the Minister.

“By the blue sky, that’s a curiosity. Why, old Petrosch is in the very
thick of the army plans and dead against the Court, King, Queen, and
all the rest of them. He’ll grin when I tell him.”

“The Minister assured me that the army was loyal to the throne, and
that the Colonel could convince me of that. He admitted there was
some disaffection in certain regiments, but that the feeling was
insignificant.”

“Oh, he’s an ass; and nothing else. That’s the usual rot talked in the
Court circles; and of course the officers don’t undeceive them and shew
their hand.”

“And what’s the truth?”

“Why that--of course we’re talking as old friends, Bergwyn, and you
won’t repeat what I say?”

“I give you my word on that. I’m going to talk to you presently about
myself on the same understanding.”

“Well, the fact is then that we’re on the eve of a revolution; and
there’s only one real power in the country. The army. They can’t stand
the Queen’s methods--and they don’t mean to.”

“Show me.”

“I can’t understand either the King or the Queen. She’s one of the most
wonderful women that ever drew breath; and in some respects the ablest
and shrewdest. In others, she acts like a perfect fool. She comes from
the people, of course; and that’s against her; but she could have made
her position absolutely secure if she’d shewn a gulden’s worth of tact
in the right direction. But she never does. She could have had the
army leaders at her feet; but she has alienated every one of them, by
sticking all sorts of impossible men, relations or favourites, at the
top of things; and degrading every man of capacity who won’t kow-tow to
her in everything. As a result, bar her favourites she hasn’t a friend
left in the army. It’s the same in everything else; and the limit has
been reached.”

“And the King?”

“He says ditto to every word she utters. She can’t forget she came from
the gutter, or near it; and, having power, is never at rest unless she
is shewing it. She wants us all to be too afraid of her to dare to
remember her origin. That, at least, is what many of us think. Anyhow,
she has made the present position impossible and the officers are going
to change it. It’s the only way to save the country.”

“How will they change it?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “By a revolution, Bergwyn; a peaceful one,
if possible; but a revolution, certainly.”

“If possible? What does that mean?”

“The abdication of the King and Queen--if they’ll go.”

“And if they won’t go?”

“They’ll have to,” he replied, with another shrug. “To tell you the
truth, there’s a section of the officers who urge violent means.”

“Assassination?” I recalled Elma’s prophecy.

“Yes, it comes to that,” he said, gloomily. “I’m dead against violent
methods; but what they contend is that it is better half a score of
lives should be lost than as many thousands by a civil war. Our hope--I
mean the hope of the moderate men in the army--is that the King will
see the uselessness of resisting the army and go.”

“You are convinced that the army will stand together?”

“Oh, yes. Petrosch gave me the proofs to bring to you;” and he took out
some papers and plunged into a description of the feeling in almost all
the regiments in the army.

“It looks convincing enough on paper,” I said.

“My dear Bergwyn, it’s the result of months of work and agitation, and
you may rely on it. And we have the country with us. Look here;” and
out came more papers, proving that the feeling of people of all classes
was on the side of the army.

“There is only one real power in Servia to-day, Bergwyn. The army.”

“And why does Colonel Petrosch send you to me with all this?”

“Two reasons. Either that you may be induced to join our side at once;
or, failing that, that you may be persuaded of the uselessness of
financing the Government or any other faction opposed to us.”

“And your own opinion, Nikolitch?”

“My dear fellow, I’m only a fly on the wheel; but I think you must be
in a great hurry to chuck your money away, if you think of taking any
side at all. The army will win in the end: we must, for nothing can
stop us; and there will be a new Government, and with a new King--Peter
Karageorgevics, I expect--but until things are settled what’s to be
your security for any loan?”

“You put it plainly,” said I, with a smile at his bluntness.

“That’s what I came for, Bergwyn. I speak partly as old Petrosch’s
mouthpiece, but chiefly as an old chum. Mind you, when the new
Government is in the stirrups matters may be different; there’s a great
deal got to happen before that, however. But I suppose you don’t really
come to fool your money away?”

“Is that a mouthpiece question or your own?”

“Petrosch might like to know,” he laughed, stroking his moustache;
“but of course I shan’t tell him a word you don’t wish me to repeat.
He doesn’t think you came here with any thought of such business; but
he does want to kill the chance of your doing any with others than the
army.”

“If the army really holds the key to the position I might wish to have
their influence for a certain purpose.”

“He’s a cute devil, and that’s the truth. That’s just how he summed up
your visit. But of course he doesn’t know what the purpose is.”

“Could the influence be got?”

“My dear Bergwyn, anything could be got in this little kingdom of
ours--at a price. I fancy his notion is that you are after a title of
some sort, or some concessions, and are ready to buy them by floating
this loan. That’s the idea in the Court too, I know. I chuckled when I
heard it--but then I know you and they don’t.”

“No. I don’t want either a title or concessions; but I can see now the
gist of certain hints thrown out this morning. What I do want is to get
to the bottom of certain things here in the first place. You’ve spoken
freely enough about the army, are you at liberty to talk about other
matters?”

“Of course I am. Fire away, ask what you like.”

“What are the Court intentions about the succession?”

“The Queen means to secure it for her brother--and it’s that which has
put the final touch to the army discontent. They simply won’t have him;
and yet it’s a fact that the formal pronouncement in his favour is
actually drawn up. Some of our people have seen the document. Of course
it’s a secret; but we’ve got friends even in the Palace itself.”

“But the claims of the Prince Albrevics and his marriage with Princess
Gatrina?”

“Why, of course, mere rot. The Princess stands in the direct line of
succession, but she’s a woman and barred from the throne. Albrevics is
an impossible; everyone knows that--and a very unsavoury impossibility
too. But the Princess has or had something of a following and they
would be glad to see her on the throne if a husband could be found
who’d be received as King. They know this at Court, and so the plan is
hatched to marry her to Albrevics and get her out of the road. It’s
an infernal business, for she’s just as good as gold. But she’s in the
way of the Court schemes and consequently is to be sacrificed. That’s a
specimen of the royal methods.”

“Isn’t there another scheme about here--to marry her to the Duke
Barinski?”

“So you’ve heard that, eh? That’s the Russian plan. He’s a tool of
Russia and would make a pretty puppet for them if they could succeed.
But they won’t. The army won’t have it; and what the army decides will
be done.”

“You astound me,” I exclaimed in surprise at the freedom with which
he spoke. “Does everybody know everybody else’s schemes in this
extraordinary country?”

“Pretty well. I suppose it looks odd to a stranger; but our chief talk
here is conspiracy of one kind or another. Why, even the plans of
the army have been carried to the Court; and they are so blind that
they won’t believe them. It isn’t etiquette there even to think that
anything hostile to the Court can happen.”

“Are there any other plots?” I asked with a smile.

“Heaps; but you’ve got hold of the three that count for anything; and
only that of the army will come to a head. Next, please;” and he threw
himself back in his chair and laughed at my look of surprise. After a
moment he added: “There’s only one person in all the mess I pity--the
Princess Gatrina. She may find things very ugly; although there’s not a
soul who knows about her who would do her an injury. You’ve heard the
tattle about her?”

“What is that?”

“She was kidnapped the other night; at least, so we believe. At any
rate she disappeared and no one knew where she’d gone. There was a
story that she had been carried off by brigands; but that’s all rot,
of course. Nobody knows exactly what happened except herself, perhaps;
although I doubt if she does.”

“I know,” I said, quietly.

“What?” His astonishment was complete. “The devil you do.”

“I’m going to tell you. Nikolitch: as my friend, you know, not the
Colonel’s mouthpiece.”

“I’m friend first, Bergwyn, mouthpiece only afterwards--and a long way
afterwards, too.”

“Well, then, I’m here because of the Princess;” and I told him as
briefly as I could of the adventure in the hills and Karasch’s
discovery of the part played by Duke Barinski. I said nothing, however,
of my feelings for Gatrina, leaving him to believe merely that I was
anxious for her safety.

“You’re a lucky devil, Bergwyn,” was his first comment. “I wish I could
have had such a chance to serve her. But what an infernal scheme! What
are you going to do?”

“I want the army influence to protect her in case of trouble. Now you
understand. How can I get it?”

“Tell Petrosch what you’ve told me in the first place, and in the
second, pledge yourself to negotiate a loan for the new Government as
soon as it’s well established.”

I thought a moment. “No, to the first part,” I said. “That’s for
ourselves alone at present. To the second, yes, as soon as you like.”

“He’s very quick. He’ll guess.”

“Guess what?”

He smiled significantly. “You want this Albrevics marriage off, I
suppose.”

“Any woman should be prevented from marrying such a brute.”

“Of course,” he replied, drily, and paused. “You might put it on that
ground; but he wouldn’t believe it was all. We don’t deal much in
platonic affection in Servia.”

“I don’t care what he believes.”

“I don’t know him if he wouldn’t be glad to believe a lot. The princess
is very much in the way. I told you no one wishes her any harm.”

“What do you mean by that grave look?” I asked, for his face was very
serious.

“It’s a very ugly matter. I told you what the moderate men among us
feel; but there’s the other section to be reckoned with. If their views
prevail, it will be a clean sweep.”

“A clean sweep?”

“Yes; everyone connected with the Obrenovics family will be in
danger--even the Princess herself.”

“Do you mean....” I began, excitedly.

“Yes, I mean all the worst that may be in your thoughts, Bergwyn. And
neither you nor Petrosch himself, nor anyone, might be able to save her
in the mad mood that would prevail in such a crisis. It will be a very
ugly time.”

“Do you think the other section will prevail?”

“Anything is possible in the present temper, Bergwyn.”

“Good God!” I exclaimed, intensely moved and alarmed by the thoughts
which this admission suggested.

For a few moments we were silent.

“I think I ought to tell you why I thought you had come here,” said
Nikolitch, breaking the pause. “Do you know there’s an old--old
associate of yours here? Her name now is the Baroness von Tulken.”

“She came to me this morning.”

“She gave me to understand you were coming here on her account.”

I laughed. “It doesn’t amount to anything what she says.”

“No; but she talks, Bergwyn, and--well, it’s none of my affairs,” he
broke off, and looked at me as if inviting me to speak.

“Let her talk,” I answered, not accepting the invitation.

“Then it isn’t anything to do with her?”

“No, nothing. I’ve told you the only reason why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got a devilish hard task, old fellow. But if I can
help in any way, use me. I must go. I’ve duty on. What shall I tell
Petrosch?” and he rose.

“That I want the influence, and that to get it I’ll do that business of
the loan for the new Government--but not if there’s to be any violence
in establishing it. Prepare him in that way and arrange for me to see
him to-morrow.”

“Take my tip and tell him your motive, Bergwyn.”

“I’ll think it over,” I said; and after arranging to see as much as
possible of one another during my stay in the capital we parted.

After he had gone I did think it over and saw one thing clearly enough.
I must secure the help and influence of the army at any cost; as that
promised the most effective means of protecting Gatrina.

On the whole the talk with Nikolitch had the result of restoring
my confidence and raising my hopes again. There were plenty of
difficulties to be overcome, of course; but if the army was resolved to
change the dynasty and was strong enough to force that resolve upon the
country, Gatrina’s chances in regard to the succession were as good as
dead; her marriage with either Prince Albrevics or Duke Barinski would
be objectless, and then--well, she would be free to choose for herself.

That was all I could ask for and I awaited the interview with Colonel
Petrosch with keen anticipation.

On the following morning Nikolitch came to report that the Colonel had
been suddenly called away, however, and that he would come to see me
the next day.

“Anything fresh occurred?” I asked.

“Something is always occurring just now, Bergwyn. But I fancy the
Colonel has really gone to avoid the reception at the Palace to-night.
He doesn’t wish to be present himself for one thing; and for another,
I fancy he wishes you to go there without having committed yourself
to us. You’re to be tackled, of course--the show is got up for that
purpose, I suppose--and crediting you with the blunt methods of certain
Americans, he thinks you might feel impelled to tell the truth. We
don’t work in that crude way here, you know.”

I smiled. “Did you say anything about the Princess?”

“Very little. I dropped a hint that you were anxious about her safety.
He made just the answer I should have expected.”

“Well?”

“That he wished to Heaven she could be induced to leave the country.”

“And so do I; but I doubt it. You’ll be at the Palace to-night, I
suppose.”

“I. My dear fellow, no. There’ll be no place for small fry like me
there. But I can tell you who will be there;” and he rattled away with
a lot of Court gossip until I pulled him up.

“There’s one thing I have to do to-day, Nikolitch: perhaps you can help
me. I want to satisfy myself from outside sources that the army can do
all you think. Whom should I see?”

“You must take it from us that we are united, Bergwyn: for no one knows
it. That the army, if united, must be all powerful, you can learn from
any one anywhere. No one doubts it. Here, see these people;” and he
wrote down a number of names of influential people in various positions.

I spent the rest of the day prosecuting my inquiries; and everywhere
I went, I heard the same verdict. That grave troubles were close at
hand, and that everything must turn upon the attitude of the army. Of
that no one entertained a shadow of a doubt.

Nothing in all that strange time amazed me more than the openness with
which the plans of the opposing parties were canvassed on all sides.

Everyone appeared to be agreed that a revolution of some kind was
actually impending. The attitude of the two Great Powers concerned was
matter of free talk. Russia had been favoured under Milan; Austrian
influence had now the upper hand under Alexander and his Queen. Austria
was hopeful to maintain the King; Russia resolved to countercheck him
and regain her former influence. The army was speaking for the nation
at large and equally opposed to both the Powers.

These aims and the possible methods of attaining them respectively
seemed to be known to all; but nowhere, save in her immediate circle,
was a good word, nay, scarcely a civil word, used toward the Queen. The
note everywhere was one of inveterate hostility, almost of execration.
And this was the most sinister omen of all, not only as affecting her,
but as touching Gatrina also, of whom I heard many harsh things said.

It was thus in a mood of troubled uneasiness that I set out to attend
the reception at the Palace, while my private doubts as to how Gatrina
would meet me in my altered character added a special poignancy to my
anxiety and disquietude.

I made the most strenuous efforts to hold myself well in hand and
maintain complete self-restraint; but when at length my eager eyes
found her, my heart began hammering against my ribs with quite painful
excitement, in which dread and delight were almost equally mingled.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE.


The reception was outwardly a very brilliant affair indeed, with
multitudes of flashing lights, clever colour effects, lavish
decoration, and a prodigal wealth of flowers, as the setting for the
showy uniforms of handsome men and the magnificent dresses and jewels
of pretty women.

One’s first impression was an irresistible tribute to the perfect
æsthetic triumph which had been achieved. But that impression was
only momentary. Knowing as I did the cloud of peril which encircled
the whole court, the scene soon appeared to me to be rather a ghastly
mockery of Fate than a bit of beautiful realism; and I caught myself
wondering how men could caper and jest and women smile and frivol in
pretended unconsciousness of everything but the pleasure of the hour.

I recalled the chamberlain’s words of the day before--that the whole
thing was arranged in my honour. _My_ honour indeed! To kow-tow to the
man with the dollars! To bow the knee to mammon! To fool and weedle me
and dazzle me with a beautiful farce gorgeously mounted, until I would
loose the strings of my own and my friend’s money bags, and pour out
the golden stream to enable this kind of burlesque to be continued.

Then I caught sight of Gatrina and fell into a condition of troubled
anxiety and delicious anticipation from which someone recalled me in
order to present me to their Majesties--the young King and that most
remarkable of women, Queen Draga.

I am not likely to forget that moment. The King who, in obedience to
one of those impulses of his overpowering self-will had had courage to
choose his wife from among the people and was by nature, I believe, a
capable, clever and strong man, was overshadowed by his magnificent
Queen. Beautiful she was not; the face was too strong, too powerful,
too imperious; and although she was grace personified, in every
movement and gesture of her perfectly-framed figure, it was by the
wonderful magnetism of her personality that she dominated all who once
yielded to the magic influence she exercised.

The few words of greeting which she spoke to me, welcoming me to
Belgrade, and expressing the hope that I liked the capital, were
uttered with a charm that made the merest commonplace phrase beautiful,
and endowed it with the point of significant meaning of rare eloquence.
At least so it all appeared to me while my own words sounded awkward,
clumsy and crude in contrast.

I was replying to a question in this way when Gatrina approached the
Queen, and I saw her look at me and start in intense surprise; flushing
first and then turning white as the gauze dress she wore, her eyes
unable to leave my face.

A few seconds passed while I went on with my reply, rambling almost at
random in my confusion as I fought my way back to self-possession.

The Queen noticed something in my manner, and I saw the expression of
her wonderful eyes change for a fleeting instant until she dropped them
and appeared not to observe my confusion.

What I said I know not; but she smiled graciously and saying that we
should have another opportunity of discussing the matter, turned to
Gatrina.

“I must present you to one of my favourites, Mr. Bergwyn, the Princess
Gatrina. She is most kindly disposed to all Americans, and will tell
you all about Belgrade.”

The next moment I was bowing to Gatrina and the King and Queen, and
their circle moved away leaving us together. I mumbled some commonplace
about being charmed to have such a guide. This was for the benefit
of those within earshot about us; and before she could reply an
interruption came.

Elma swept up, superbly dressed and full of confidence, and held out
her hand to me.

“How do you do, Mr. Bergwyn? I am glad to see an old friend here. How
pale you look, Gatrina. Are you ill?”

“No, thank you. The room is hot.”

“That is so often the cause, isn’t it?” she replied, with flagrant and
almost insolent disbelief in the excuse. “You must be careful, dear.
You are not strong since your terrible experience recently. Do you know
of the princess’s adventure and escape, Mr. Bergwyn?”

“I have but just been presented to her, Baroness.”

“Oh, I thought you had met before,” she exclaimed. “Of course, I don’t
know why--but then one never does know why one makes such mistakes,
does one? Let us go and sit down. You are such an object of attention,
Mr. Bergwyn, that you’ll be positively mobbed if we stand here. It
isn’t every day we see an American millionaire in Belgrade where we’re
all as poor as mice in churches.”

She led the way to some seats, and not knowing what else to do, we
followed. She played with admirable confidence. What she knew or
guessed about that time in the Bosnian hills, I could not tell, any
more than I could see her motive. But she seemed to understand that
she had us at a disadvantage and made the most of it adroitly. She was
resolved to pose before Gatrina as an old friend of mine, and I did not
see how to stop her, although every word had its barb for me.

“You would be surprised, Mr. Bergwyn, and I think you ought to be
flattered, at the number of people who wish to know you,” she said
as soon as we were seated. “The moment I said you were an old friend
of mine, I was pestered, literally pestered, by people wanting to be
introduced.”

“I am here on business only, Baroness.”

“Here, to-night you mean. Oh, yes, of course, I know that. But you used
to have a keen liking for pleasure you know;” and she smiled as though
she knew a hundred secrets about me all elaborately dissipated and
disgraceful.

“I did not mean to-night,” I corrected. “I meant my visit to Belgrade.”

“Of course, how very stupid of me. Why, it might have sounded as if I
meant that in speaking to Gatrina you would be thinking of business.”
She laughed with a sort of malicious gaiety. “How very stupid I am. But
then, we do call you the Queen’s Advocate, don’t we, Gatrina?”

“Mr. Bergwyn may misunderstand you, Baroness.”

“Oh, no, not the least fear of that. We understand one another
perfectly, do we not, Mr. Bergwyn?”

“In what way do you mean, Baroness?” I asked, pointedly.

She took up the challenge readily and laughed, quite joyously. “Why as
old friends, old and intimate friends ought to understand one another,
of course. What else should I mean?” Deny that old friendship to
Gatrina, if you dare, was in the look she gave me.

“The seven years which have passed since we last met, Baroness, have
been the stern years of my life,” I answered, for Gatrina’s benefit.
“And in them I have forgotten the follies of my childhood in the real
life of the world.”

“What a sage you must have become!” she laughed; but the laugh was more
palpably forced than before. “Do you know,” she added, “I am just dying
to tell you of this adventure of Gatrina’s among the brigands. May I,
Gatrina?”

“No. It would not interest Mr. Bergwyn, nor amuse me.”

“That was the adventure in which the dog, Chris, played a part; as I
told you yesterday, Mr. Bergwyn. Isn’t it an extraordinary coincidence,
Gatrina, that Mr. Bergwyn should have an immense dog, positively an
immense creature of the same name, Chris? I declare I’ve been thinking
about it ever since I left your house;” and she turned to me with a
glance. Her audacity increased with every fresh thrust she made.

“There are many big dogs in the world, Baroness, and not nearly enough
names to go round. Thousands of them must bear the same; and a dog is
not like us, you see, and cannot change its name.”

“Yours is such a splendid creature, too,” she said, ignoring this.
“Huge, almost black, smooth-coated; just the kind of dog you would
love, Gatrina.”

“You make me curious. I must have an opportunity of seeing it, Mr.
Bergwyn,” said Gatrina, steadily, looking at me for the first time
since I had spoken to her. She was quite calm and self-collected now,
and Elma’s interposition had served one good purpose. It had given us
both time to get over the surprise and confusion of the meeting.

“It will give me great pleasure, Princess,” I answered gravely. I
understood, of course, that she did not intend Elma to know the truth
about the hill business.

“You are feeling better again now, dear?” said Elma, solicitously. “I
am so glad. I wonder what upset you. However, you have got over it,
and that’s the great thing. I suppose it _must_ have been the heat
unless”--with a pause and a mischievous shrug of the shoulders--“unless
it was the shock of meeting Mr. Bergwyn so unexpectedly.”

“I am obliged to you for the implied compliment, Baroness. Do you
think the Princess expected an American citizen to wear a cowboy’s
dress or a red man’s war paint?” I laughed, and Gatrina joined me.

“I assure you, Mr. Bergwyn, the Baroness can make the most wonderful
mistakes,” she said. “I did not understand for the moment what she
meant about your dog; but I believe I see it now. I do, indeed.” She
was a better actress than Elma after all, and her merry laugh now was a
most natural one.

“I must plead my complete mystification, I fear.”

“Of course, you can both misunderstand,” said Elma, spitefully.

“I really must tell you now, Mr. Bergwyn,” declared Gatrina; “although
I said just now it would not interest you. Elma has made it interesting
and quite amusing, although the adventure she speaks of was very far
from being amusing. You know there are still some brigands left in the
Bosnian and Herzogovinian hills.”

“Brigands?” I exclaimed in a tone of astonishment.

“I am afraid we must admit it. Well, some of them conceived the idea
that if they carried me off they would get a good ransom; and they
did it. But they did not get the ransom, for I escaped. After a most
exciting ride I was saved by a peasant with a big dog, called Chris;
and because you have a dog of the same name, I really believe the
baroness thinks you must be a peasant in disguise of an American
millionaire. Isn’t it ingenious and clever of her?”

“I did not say anything of the kind,” snapped Elma, viciously.

“Of course, we have tried to let as little as possible get known of the
matter, Mr. Bergwyn, but this delicious theory of the baroness’s has
made such a joke of it, that really I think I must tell everybody now.
Would you mind if I were to say plainly that you are not an American
gentleman but a Bosnian peasant, and that I know that to be true
because you have a big dog called Chris? It’s such a convincing reason,
you see.”

“Anything that would associate me with you, Princess, would be a
pleasure,” I returned, with a bow and a smile, as if I were paying her
a mere conventional compliment.

“You are trying to make me appear very ridiculous, Gatrina,” exclaimed
Elma, angrily.

“I declare I shall tell the Queen and get her to let us have a tableau
in which I should be the maiden in distress, and you the peasant
rescuer, Mr. Bergwyn. You could get a very picturesque dress, you know;
and I am sure you could play the part. But to make it complete we ought
to have the baroness in, because it’s her idea; and yet I don’t see
what part to give her,” and Gatrina laughed.

“I think I can offer a suggestion,” said I, deliberately. “We could
reverse the thing; and instead of the Baroness being the one to
discover the truth, let her have planned your abduction.”

Elma started, her eyes flashed with sudden anger at me, and she changed
colour.

“What is the matter, Baroness? You are not well,” said Gatrina with a
startled glance at me, followed by a searching look at Elma’s white
confusion.

“It is my turn to feel the heat,” she replied, trying to force a laugh.
“Really, Mr. Bergwyn, I shall begin to be afraid you have some effect
on the atmosphere. First it upset Gatrina, and now me.”

“You did not like my suggestion, I see. I will withdraw it,” I
answered, quietly. “Pray pardon me.” Gatrina sat thinking hard; and I
guessed I had started the line of thought. “It is a curious thing,” I
went on, as if merely to cover the pause; “but I have had more than
one experience of the kind. I mean where I have been in conversation
with people and suddenly, without any palpable cause, they have been
overcome--by the atmosphere.”

“You must be a dangerous man,” laughed Elma, who was quickly recovering
herself.

“Not dangerous, I trust, to--my friends”; and I bowed and smiled, and
gave her a look which she understood.

We were interrupted then by someone who came from the Queen.

“Her Majesty desires me to remind your Highness that the dancing is
about to commence,” he said to Gatrina, and added to Elma, “Her Majesty
desires to speak with you at once, Baroness.”

Elma rose. “I suppose I am interfering with your business and so am
ordered away,” she said with a sneer.

“Will you give me a dance, Princess?” I asked. The moment we were alone
the feeling of restraint was revived.

“It is by the Queen’s desire,” she answered, with a shrug as she put
the tips of her fingers on my arm and I led her away. It was a waltz
and we danced it in silence. At the close I did not know what she would
wish to do, and as I hesitated, she said suddenly:

“I suppose we must keep up the pretence. We are to go through into the
further conservatory.” The place was empty save for a couple of chairs
making a sort of cosy corner; and as I guessed the arrangement was of
the Queen’s making, I blessed her for her unwitting thoughtfulness.

Gatrina was very pale, and as she sat down she exclaimed impulsively:

“It is almost maddening. You might have spared me this.”

“What is maddening?”

“Please not to pretend you don’t understand. That can only make matters
worse than they are.”

“I understand that I wish very urgently to speak to you; but if you
would prefer another time, I will go;” and I got up.

“And so force me to give some false explanation to the Queen of what I
cannot explain truly. Thank you.”

I sat down again. “Can’t we clear the air a bit?” I asked.

“Having done this miserable thing you pretend not to know what it is. I
suppose you can see that all this is arranged. That I was to dance with
you, make myself agreeable to you, bring you here where we could be
undisturbed, and then talk you into carrying out this miserable loan.
You can see that surely, as clearly as you can see how successful you
have been in humiliating me. You must be very glad and proud of your
success.”

“Thank you.”

“Then if you didn’t plan it, why didn’t you let me know why you were
coming to Belgrade? Why not tell me who you were really? Why not give
me time and means to avoid you? Oh, it is intolerable! You knew I was
to play jackal for the Queen with the American money-man. Elma herself
told you I was what she calls the Queen’s advocate. Ugh!”

“I don’t like to hear you speak of the Baroness von Tulken by her
Christian name, as if she were your friend.”

“Is it one of the conditions of your financial business that you
control the friendships of the Court of Belgrade?”

She was unreasonably angry, and, of course, abominably unjust.

“I don’t see why you do me that injustice? I could not possibly know
that the Queen would intentionally throw us together, and as for
humiliation----”

“You knew it yesterday. The Baroness--Elma, told you so.” I smiled at
the aggressive way in which she paused and threw up her head as she
made the correction in the name; and the smile irritated her to still
further anger. “I dislike evasion and pretence, Mr. Bergwyn.”

I winced a bit under the lash of her words, and paused; and just at
that moment my memory played me a prank. That scene at the camp when we
had our first sharp will contest leapt suddenly into my thoughts, and
when her face had worn pretty much the same resolute angry expression.
Then I leaned back in my chair and replied very deliberately:

“That’s just where you’re wrong, I think. If you knew anything about
me you’d know I like evasion and pretence and falsehood. The man who
can do a dirty unmanly trick in the dirtiest and most selfish way is
just my type; and if he can do it to a woman--in the way I’ve done it
to you, for instance--he’s my hero. Of course, he must be a big sort of
brute; cunning, despicable, and mean; a clever beast at getting women
into a false position so that he can enjoy a laugh to himself by making
them suffer--and the more they suffer the more he hugs himself. You
know the kind of man; you must, because from what you’ve said about
me----”

“I don’t wish to hear any more about your ideals, thank you.”

“I was only filling in the details to your rough outline. But what I
want you to understand is, your outline is right and that you have just
such a brute to deal with in me.”

She did not answer for quite a time and sat tearing to pieces nervously
a leaf she had plucked from a plant near.

“I did not say anything of the kind.”

“You see it’s this way,” I said, not heeding her words. “I came to
Belgrade to humiliate you, to insult you, to trample----”

“Don’t, Mr. Bergwyn,” she cried, quickly.

I threw up my hands as one who is aggrieved. “You won’t let me tell you
the truth, you see. I think it’s a little hard on me, anyway. A man
doesn’t get many chances of complete self-revelation; and I was just
enjoying----”

She was looking straight out in front of her and turned her head with
one swift glance that stopped my banter. I broke off and said very
earnestly:

“If I did not come for that purpose then I came to serve you.”

“You should not have come at all. You cannot serve me.”

“On the contrary I have already done so. I know what you do not--the
reason behind your--behind the supposed brigand business.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard what part I suggested for the Baroness von Tulken in the
tableau. She would know how to play the part to the life.”

She sat up suddenly and faced me, her features flushed and her eyes
eager.

“How do you think you know this?”

“I don’t think. I know. The scheme was laid here in Belgrade, and the
men who carried it out were hired and paid by the Duke Barinski. I can
produce the men who will identify him.”

“It can’t be. How did you learn it?”

“Money; and the aid of a staunch friend of yours.”

“A friend of mine?”

“Karasch.”

“Karasch? Karasch.” She repeated the name in a tone of reminiscence,
very gentle and low, and putting her hand to her eyes sat back as if in
dismay or pleasure at the associations connected with it. But a moment
afterwards the emotion, whether pleasure or pain, passed, and her face,
as she took her hand from it and sat up again, was colder and sterner
than I had ever seen it.

“And you connect the Baroness with this?”

“I do, and can prove it.” Her eyes hardened and her lip curled.

“I congratulate you upon your manliness, Mr. Bergwyn. I know the real
reason for your presence in Belgrade; the Baroness told me that: your
old and intimate friend whom you are now maligning in this chivalrous
way.”

And then I knew that Elma had, indeed, been talking about that old
time; and I understood many things; amongst them the mess of mischief
she had brewed for me.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A DECLARATION OF WAR.


The position was so full of ludicrous absurdity owing to the monstrous
distortion of my motives, and yet so embarrassing in my inability to
explain things without going into the whole matter of my past relations
with Elma, that I did not know whether to laugh at the absurdity or
be angry at the injustice. I was angry and yet I wanted to laugh; but
that did not help me to find a reply to Gatrina’s scornfully delivered
indictment.

My silence and apparent confusion made the matter worse. Every second
that I hesitated seemed to increase her indignation; and I could not
help perceiving that my influence was running down so fast that it
would soon be many degrees below zero.

My first attempt to remedy the matter was unfortunate.

“We have got suddenly on to very delicate ground, Princess, but I
can only say that I did not know the Baroness was in Belgrade when I
resolved to come here.”

“That means that you give the lie to a woman behind her back, Mr.
Bergwyn; and that woman my friend and also an old friend of yours.”
Cold, contemptuous and cutting in every syllable, her words hurt me to
the quick.

“Pardon me, you must not twist my words. I am telling you no more than
the truth and no less. If the Baroness told you----”

“_If?_” she broke in, indignantly. “Then it is _my_ word you question.”

“No; that again has never entered my thoughts. The shortest plan will
be for me to go in search of the Baroness and bring her here that this
may be explained.”

“There is no need, thank you. It is not sufficiently important.”

“Will you tell me what she said?”

“No, Mr. Bergwyn, I am not a talebearer,” she answered with a quick
shrug of the shoulders.

“You allow other people to carry tales to you. But that perhaps is your
interpretation of consistency. Do you believe what I told you?”

“Shall we change the subject, Mr. Bergwyn? I hope your impressions of
Belgrade, so far as the scenery is concerned, have been pleasant.” Her
assumption of courtesy was excellent.

“Do you believe what I told you that I came here without knowing of the
presence of the Baroness von Tulken?”

“The views from the higher grounds are considered to be among the
finest in Europe. Have you seen them?”

I rose from my seat. “I will fetch the Baroness,” I said, bluntly.

She paused, got up, and looking straight at me, said icily:

“Can you not find some other opportunity to tell her what to say?”

I caught my breath with the pain of this and bit my lip as I gripped
the back of my chair tightly. I think she must have seen something of
what I suffered in that moment. Then I bowed.

“I have no answer to that, Princess. I shall leave Belgrade to-night
for good. Of that you may now rest assured. Shall I take you back to
the ballroom?”

But instead of placing her hand on the arm I offered, she sat down
again and turned her face away from me. I stood a few moments in some
hesitation and then said: “I bid you farewell, Princess;” and walked
away.

“Mr. Bergwyn,” she called, when I had taken some half dozen paces. I
stopped and turned. “I wish to speak to you.” She spoke without looking
at me. I retraced my steps and stood by my former seat. Some moments of
tense silence followed.

I broke the silence. “This has become very embarrassing to me,
Princess; but I have decided upon my course. There are some things I
have to tell you, but with your permission I will write them and send
them by Karasch whom you can question as to the truth of that part of
them which he knows. I recognise now the mistake I made in coming to
the capital, and I will remedy it at once. I can easily find a pretext
for my sudden departure.”

“No. You must not go. Please, sit down. Don’t you understand that we
are probably being watched, although not overheard.”

I resumed my seat then; and again we were silent.

“You are angry at what I said?” she asked at length.

“No. It was much too terrible to cause mere anger.”

“I did not wish to give you pain.” Her face was still averted from me,
and when I did not reply, she turned and looked swiftly at me. “I was
angry but I--I did not mean it, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“I am very glad to hear that. Shall we leave it there?”

“You wish to humble me and force me to say that I am ashamed of the
words?”

“God forbid I should have such a thought. But you appear so incapable
of doing me anything but injustice.”

“I am not; but the position is so impossible.”

“Only if you make it so.”

“I want to believe in you, but--” she threw up her hands and sighed.

“If you would do so, it would make all the difference.”

“I am in such sore trouble that you cannot understand.”

“On the contrary, I think I know more of the trouble than you yourself.
I know the motive of the Queen in regard to your marriage with Prince
Albrevics.”

She started with sudden agitation. “You, a stranger to Servia, have
heard that. Tell me.”

“The Prince is impossible as a ruler for the country; not a hundred men
in the country would bear with him on the throne; and in that case your
own claim would be sacrificed. She would have you make the marriage for
that reason--that her own plans in regard to her brother’s succession
may be helped.”

“Yes, that is what they have told me. It has come like a terrible and
sudden blow. How did you hear it?”

“Not from one source only, but several. It is the common knowledge of
those who understand these things.”

“I cannot believe it; I cannot. She is goodness itself to me, and has
always been my friend. To me more than a sister; and I love her and
trust her as one. I cannot believe it!” Her distress and pain as she
spoke were intense. “They tell me that even now she and the King are
prepared with the proclamation in favour of her brother, and only wait
for my marriage to issue it. But it cannot be true.”

“I only tell you what I am assured is true.”

“What am I to do? Whom can I trust if not the best friend I have ever
had?” She spoke almost wildly in her agitation.

“If as you think we are being observed, Princess, may I counsel you
to shew less feeling and excitement? Let me speak while you collect
yourself. You must face the position calmly, for there is yet another
danger that threatens you. There is a scheme to marry you to the Duke
Barinski----”

“You know of that, too!” she interposed. “How do you learn all these
secrets?”

“Let me put a question to you,” I said, as a thought occurred to me.
“Who told you of the Queen’s intentions in regard to Prince Albrevics?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Then I will tell you. It was the Baroness von Tulken.” There was no
need for her to say in words that my guess was right. Her start and
glance did that.

“I am almost afraid of you,” she said.

“I don’t wish that; but I would rather have fear than mistrust. These
things have been told to me plainly by those who seek to get the money
I am able to control. It was only a guess that the Baroness had told
you; and I will give you her motive. She desires to influence you to
marry the Duke Barinski under the pretence that the marriage would
reconcile the rival interests of the two contending families, and,
having Russia behind it, would render the throne secure.”

Her surprise at my knowledge of these things was so great that it
appeared to dwarf the significance of the news itself.

“It is wonderful,” she exclaimed.

“The wonder is rather that while so many people know of all this, you
yourself have remained ignorant of it so long. Can you bear that I tell
you still more?”

“Is there more to tell? I am already filled with amazement.”

“Do you know the intentions of the army leaders? I mean so far as they
affect you?”

“Affect me, Mr. Bergwyn? They cannot affect me.”

“Your eyes and ears have been dulled by the conditions and restrictions
of the Court life. What I tell you is now for your hearing alone. The
army will declare against the family of which you are a member, and
will change the succession to the Throne. When that moment comes it
will be fraught with peril to you in common with all the Obrenovics.”

“No, no, the army is loyal. I have heard whispers of some such
treachery; but there is no ground for them.”

“That I know is the Court view--mine is the true one.” I spoke as
deliberately and impressively as I could.

“This very question has been discussed at the Palace within the last
few days, a warning to the same effect was conveyed to the King and
Queen; but they have made wide and searching inquiries; and we know
there is no ground whatever to doubt the army’s loyalty. You have been
misinformed.”

“If there were any reason to doubt it, I should not speak positively,
Princess; but there is none.”

“Why do you wish to frighten me?”

“I wish only that you shall know the truth.”

“But if all you say were true, do you realise what my position would be
and what my duty would be?”

“It is because I realise the peril that encircles you that I speak
so plainly. All the parties concerned--the Court, the army and the
Russian--are struggling for their own objects; and however that
struggle may end, you stand to lose all. If the Court wins, you will
be set aside; if the Russian, you might gain the throne for a while,
but the country would be convulsed by a revolution; if the army win,
then as a possible Obrenovic claimant to the Throne, you would be an
obstacle in their path and can judge what your position might then be.”

She sat thinking intently. “If you are right, then there is no one
about me whom I can trust,” she said, slowly. “Everything is a sham and
everyone I have believed in false. Do you wish me to think this?”

“I do not know all those whom you trust; but that you need someone to
advise you in such a crisis is but too clear.”

“You think I am helpless because I am a girl, I suppose?”

“Don’t let us slur this thing with personal consideration. It is far
too grave, Princess. Of the Queen’s intentions I can give you no
proofs; but of the other dangers, I believe I can. Will you let me try?
Can you bring yourself to be at my house to-morrow at midday?”

She looked at me in blank astonishment at the suggestion.

“You can bring with you anyone who is in your confidence. It is open to
you as one in the Queen’s confidence to leave a card upon me. That will
serve as an excuse, if you do not consider the issues too grave to be
subject to any mere conventions. I do.”

“If it were anyone else who proposed such a thing----”

“But it is not,” I interposed; “so don’t refuse at once. If you do not
come you can send me word.”

“Of course, I trust you,” she said with the old simple directness, to
my intense delight. “But there are so many reasons----”

She paused. “I know that,” I replied. “But believe me they are nothing
compared with those which should weigh with you. I shall hope to get
you proofs of the army’s intentions.”

“How?”

“You must leave that to my contriving.” At that moment I became aware
that someone was coming quickly toward us through the conservatory
between us and the ballroom. “Someone is coming. Take no notice,” I
whispered rapidly, and then in a loud tone: “I shall carefully consider
all you have said, Princess, and thank you for your patience with me.”

“This is the rare palm, Prince. Oh, someone is here.” It was Elma’s
voice, and she added with gentle spite: “Why, it is Gatrina and Mr.
Bergwyn. I thought you had gone an hour ago. I am so sorry to intrude.
Come, Prince, let us go back. We are in the way.”

“Not in the least, Baroness,” I answered. I had risen and saw that
her companion was Prince Albrevics, and further that he was partially
intoxicated.

“I have been looking for you everywhere, Gatrina,” he said in a surly
tone, his voice a little thick and unsteady with liquor.

“I have been here by the Queen’s desire,” she replied.

“Then you’ve been long enough, and can come away by mine.”

He had been a handsome man in his day, and his figure still retained
something of soldierly strength and uprightness. But the features had
the heavy, sodden look of dissipation.

“We have finished our conference, I think, Mr. Bergwyn?”

“How very fortunate we just timed our coming not to disturb them,
Prince, wasn’t it?” said Elma, with a sweet, significant smile.

“Yes, I think we have finished, Princess;” and with a bow to me she put
her arm on his and went away.

Elma laughed loudly enough for all to hear; and when I turned to her
she met my look with a glance of studied defiance.

“You must be careful of him, Mr. Bergwyn. He is a very jealous man,
passionately devoted to Gatrina and--one of the only real swordsmen in
Servia.”

“Will you sit down a moment. I have something to say.”

“Shall I take dear Gatrina’s place? Do you really think I am worthy to
fill it?” she asked in spiteful banter.

“No, I don’t,” I answered, brutally. I couldn’t help it in my vexation.
“But I wish to speak to you alone.”

“Just like old times, isn’t it?” She laughed, as she settled herself
comfortably in the chair and looked smilingly at me, as though we were
about to have a chat on the terms of the most confidential friendship.
As I did not speak at once, she affected nervousness and said with a
pout: “You look dreadfully stern. If you are going to be disagreeable,
I shall not stay. I want you to be like your old self.”

“I am going to say something that should please you.”

“At last? Oh, that will be delightful,” she exclaimed, rapturously;
but her eyes were full of doubt, surprise and suspicion. “You have not
said a single nice thing to me since you came.”

“But before I say it, let me request you not to make any incorrect
statement as to the reasons for my coming to Belgrade.”

“Incorrect? What have I said that is incorrect?” she cried with
innocent surprise.

“That I came, not on business, but to see you.”

“I only told Gatrina,” she said, laughing coquettishly, as though she
had the right to tell the world if she pleased; and then added with
significant insinuation: “You must have got very intimate with her
if she told you my secrets. I’m afraid I shall really have to warn
the Queen that you are a dangerous man for her advocate to be on such
confidential terms with.”

“I am not discussing that. I am merely asking you not to repeat that
statement to anyone.”

“But isn’t it true?”

“No. And you know it is not,” I replied bluntly.

“Then I am lost in amazement. You certainly did not come on the
business of the loan; you are much to shrewd for that. And if you
didn’t come to see me, whom did you come to see?” A most excellent
assumption of surprise veiled this thrust.

“I came as an American financier, Baroness, looking after my own
interests.”

But she laughed and shook her finger at me. “Fie, Mr. Bergwyn, fie.
I did not look to you, the apostle of stolid truth, for such a
statement.” Then with a change to reflective seriousness. “If it was
not for me, then it must have been for Gatrina. That’s why I told her
what I did and gave her a peep, just a little peep, into the past. But
I have not shewn her your letters--yet. Not one of them; not even the
least impressive of them. I could not do that; they are all sacred in
my eyes. My most precious possessions.”

“What is your object in all this--this burlesque?”

“Reduced to plain direct questions are you now? But don’t you think you
could answer that yourself? I’ll give you one answer. I want you on my
side and I don’t intend, if I can help it, to let the Queen’s advocate
win you over for the Queen. No, I don’t; although she has the advantage
of having been rescued by you. You needn’t try and look as if that were
not true; because it is, and I know that it is. And if you think a
moment you will see what a service I am rendering her in letting people
think you came here for my sake. Think of the scandal it would cause if
it were known that you, the American man of millions, had rescued her
and then followed her to Belgrade. It would ruin her--and people are
very particular about reputations in this Court. The Queen is obliged
to be on account of her own past.”

“Perhaps you know how the Princess came to be in need of a rescuer?”

She laughed again lightly. I was growing to hate her laughter.

“Of course I do, seeing that Duke Barinski and I planned it all. The
marriage with him would have taken place in Maglai, if she had not,
most unfortunately for us, escaped.”

“You are very frank.”

“Why not. You have probably told her already that that brigand story
was a fable and that we were at the bottom of it all. You shewed me you
knew it all, this evening; and I don’t think so poorly of you as to
dream you had not got proofs which satisfied you. I know what money can
do in Belgrade.”

“Russian money, you mean.”

“Yes. Russian money, or any other,” she returned, parrying my thrust
with the lightest air of indifference.

“It has not bought the support of the army for this Russian scheme of
yours.”

“Ah, I heard that Colonel Petrosch’s jackal, Captain Nikolitch, had
been closeted with you.”

“You take a deep concern in my movements.”

“I feel a deep interest in all that affects you. But you know that.
Besides, it is my business to learn things. We have many agents, and
Belgrade is only a small place.”

“Agents?” I said hastily.

“Agents or spies. I will call them spies, if you prefer. The point is
that we have them--everywhere. I am one if you like. They form one of
the main institutions of government in the Balkans. And in the Servian
army they abound in all ranks and all regiments.”

“Whatever I have thought of you I have never pictured you as a Russian
spy.”

She bit her lip and clenched her hands and her cheek flushed.

“It is very easy for a millionaire to sneer,” she retorted, speaking
deliberately; then with rising passion, she continued: “What would
you have had me do? God knows I had little enough choice. I was an
adventuress, living on my wits; a cheat if you will to keep my mother
and myself from the gutter. Then I was detected; and wherever I looked,
the finger of contempt met me. What chance had I? I took the only thing
that offered--a husband; my looks, as I thought, gave me that; and I
found him--what? A Russian spy. But it was not my looks he sought but
my brains, my courage, my recklessness. I could do the work, and do it
well; and when he died I was in too deeply to withdraw.”

She paused and her bosom laboured with her vehemence.

“No, I won’t pretend--to you. I could have withdrawn, of course, had
I wished. But I did not, for it gave me not only all that a woman is
supposed to care for, dress, money, and influence; but also what a
woman is not supposed to crave--power. I was feared; and it is by fear
I stand where I do. I could have married again, not once but a dozen
times; I have been wooed until men cried that I was ice. And to them I
was. What were men or marriage to me? I had tried marriage; and as for
my heart, it lay in my breast like a dead thing--for the sake of the
past.”

She looked searchingly at me as I made no reply.

“I am not acting now. I was when I first came to you yesterday; hoping
or fearing I know not which or what. I have had to learn to act to play
any part at will. To fawn, to coquet, to jest, to lure, to lie, to
appear false when I was true, and true when I was false. A spy must
learn these things--they are the tricks of the life. But I will not lie
to you. That I promise you. I have told you all plainly that you may
know me for what I am.”

I had risen in the hope of stopping her. “I beg you to say no more,” I
said.

“I have not quite finished. Please sit again. I have to speak of you
and Gatrina--the Queen’s advocate.”

“I would rather you say nothing.”

“I have a purpose in telling you the truth. You have to take a side
either with or against me. If you are against me, I will fight you
fairly--but I will use every weapon I have. I know that you came here
to follow Gatrina; I know that you saved her; my instinct tells me why
you followed her--and I tell you bluntly, she can be nothing to you.”

“I neither accept nor deny any conclusions you draw,” I said, with a
smile.

“I need no confirmation from you. I have questioned Gatrina. I knew how
it was with her before you came; and when I left your house yesterday,
your dog gave me the clue to everything. We have agents even in Samac
and Poabja, Mr. Bergwyn; and when your man Karasch was traced to your
house--after a week spent in inquiries here in Belgrade--the rest was
easy. The telegraph runs to Samac; and Poabja is but a short hour’s
ride from there.”

“Why are you so bitter against the Princess?”

“I am not bitter against her--unless you force me. She must act in
the Russian interest--that means she must marry Duke Barinski. But I
have other motives, private and personal, far stronger than those of
policy, that make me tell you you must not and shall not think of her.”

“And what do you seek from me?”

“You may join with us in effecting that marriage, or you may not, as
you please. But what you must do is to convince Gatrina beyond question
that your coming here has no connection whatever with what passed at
the time you rescued her. I have prepared the way for that.”

“You are very thoughtful, no doubt, but I don’t understand you.”

“I have told her that once we were betrothed and that you have come
here in search of me. You can confirm that.”

“What do you mean?”

“By renewing the old relations--for the time--and making the matter
public.”

“You want me to act that lie in order to deceive her?”

“To convince her of the necessity of marrying the Duke Barinski.”

I had to clench my teeth to keep my indignation under.

“I will not do it,” I said, clipping the words short.

“Then we are to fight, Mr. Bergwyn,” she said, as she rose. “I shall
find other means and take further steps. I shall poison her against
you, if I have to shew her your letters in proof of what I told her.
Will you give me your arm? I am sorry you make me your enemy and
hers--it may mean danger for her.”

“We will see,” I replied; and having led her back to the ballroom I got
away from the Palace as soon as I could, to think over the latest and
most strange development of the situation.




CHAPTER XIX.

PRINCE ALBREVICS.


When I came to think over that promise to Gatrina, to furnish proofs of
the army’s intentions, I felt I had sawn off a log which I might find
too big to haul. And the thought made me considerably uneasy.

I had given the pledge in a moment of excitement; and now that I was
cool, the difficulty of keeping it looked very formidable indeed.

It troubled me a good deal more than the frank declaration of war from
Elma--although that promised quite sufficient embarrassments of its
own. That she would keep her word I had no doubt; and I might gamble on
it that she would do her worst.

Yet in one respect it cleared my course. There was no longer any sort
of use in finessing with the Russian party. Elma knew too much for me
to think of being able to deceive her; while her preposterous condition
that there should be a sham renewal of our old engagement was too
repugnant and preposterous to be entertained for an instant.

Neither was there any thought of coquetting with the Court. That
involved apparent acquiescence in the scheme for Gatrina’s marriage;
the very thing I was firmly bent upon stopping at any cost.

I was thus confirmed in my decision of the previous day to secure the
influence of the army, and to trust to that to carry me through. But it
was just in that respect I had increased my difficulties by the pledge
to Gatrina. I could only keep it by getting Colonel Petrosch to back up
my statement to her; and here was the trouble.

I recalled Nikolitch’s advice to speak plainly to the Colonel about
Gatrina; but it was the one subject of all others which I was
altogether disinclined to discuss with him.

And the disinclination was strengthened when he and Nikolitch arrived;
for he looked about the last individual in the world whom I would have
chosen for a confidence of the kind.

His appearance impressed me mainly with a sense of cold, inflexible,
unsympathetic strength and capacity. He was a hatchet-headed man in
the fifties, with a long, narrow, keen, undemonstrative face; one of
those straight, thin-lipped mouths which seem intended for the close
guardianship of secrets; and an abnormally long heavy chin which
suggested resolute purpose, dogged persistence and perhaps cruelty;
while his piercing, hard, close-set eyes tended to confirm this
suggestion of cruelty. Altogether he was capable of being an ugly enemy.

He was sparing of words in the interview; and whatever he had guessed
as to the real motives of my presence in Belgrade he was careful to let
no hint of it appear; and he went straight to the pith of our meeting.

He expressed great pleasures in seeing me, gave Nikolitch a word of
praise for his share in having brought the meeting about, said he
understood I wished to secure the influence of the army in certain
eventualities, and then asked me point blank whether I meant to help
the existing Government financially.

I answered guardedly that I was not as yet satisfied of the present
stability of things, but that when there was a really stable Government
I should be prepared to guarantee a loan.

“Would you regard as sufficiently stable a new Government having the
united army at its back?”

“Yes, if founded without violence and commanding the support of the
country.”

He thought this over a moment. “It is all we can ask,” he said. “Will
you put that in writing, Mr. Bergwyn?”

I assented, and he immediately placed materials before me and waited in
silence while I wrote out an undertaking on the lines I had indicated.
This I read aloud to him, and he marked every word, suggesting one or
two trifling alterations. I made these and then held the paper ready
to hand to him. I did this to convince him I was earnest; and then I
opened up the other matter.

“If I give you this it amounts to a pledge that I take the side of the
army, Colonel Petrosch. What am I to receive in exchange?”

“I do not think I understand you.”

“You are gaining much by this agreement--the assurance that the
financial help required by the Government will not be found by me. To
be candid I want something in return.”

“Whatever the committee of officers can in fairness pledge the new
Government to do, they will--but you will be able to make your terms
then.”

“I want the assistance of your party now.”

“In what way?”

“My friend Nikolitch has told you I am especially concerned for the
safety of the Princess Gatrina.”

“Yes.” Not the ghost of a feeling even of interest did he shew.

“I wish to be assured of her safety.”

“There can be no difficulty in giving such an assurance,” he answered
after a moment’s thought. “So far as I am personally concerned I would
do my utmost. But you have some further question to put, I see.”

“She is, I think, coming here to-day. I wish her to be convinced of the
feeling of the army, and that the officers are unanimously resolved
upon their course of action.”

There was a pause, and I saw Nikolitch glance at me in astonishment and
from me to the Colonel.

“This is a very grave request, Mr. Bergwyn,” said Petrosch slowly. “Do
you realise that you are asking me, one of the leaders of the army, to
reveal our intentions to one of the Queen’s closest friends?”

“You are gaining much from this--” and I held up the paper--“I am
gaining nothing.”

“I fear I cannot do it, Mr. Bergwyn,” he said, reluctantly. “I might be
very gravely compromised, to say nothing of the risk to be run.”

“What risk?”

“That the news would be carried straight to the Queen.”

“It has been carried already,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“I was at the Palace last night and I heard from one who has ample
means of knowledge, that the plans of the army had been divulged to the
Court, and that diligent inquiries had been made in consequence. That
risk is therefore nothing.”

“Do you mean there are traitors amongst us?”

“I deem it extremely probable,” I said, drily.

“I cannot think where?” he declared after a pause.

“Is it the practice of traitors to advertise themselves?”

“This is very grave news--very grave, indeed.”

“Not perhaps so grave as you think--for the result of the inquiries
made was to satisfy the Court of the loyalty of the army as a whole.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t talk just for talk’s sake, Colonel.”

“But it would be very different if I myself were to see the Princess.
No, I fear I cannot do that.”

“Very well. Then I’ll tear up this paper and we’ll call the matter off.”

“You are asking too much of me, Mr. Bergwyn. I must have time to
consult others.”

“I never change my terms, Colonel Petrosch. You decide yes or no, right
now, or I must seek other means.”

He leant back in dire perplexity.

“You would disclose no plans, merely give proofs that the feeling of
the army is solid; and what you said would be received under a pledge
of confidence.”

“What is your object?”

“My sole purpose in coming to Belgrade is to secure her safety,
Colonel; and you can therefore judge how far I am prepared to go.”

“The Princess is one of our grave embarrassments, Mr. Bergwyn. If
anything I could say would enable you to influence her to leave
Belgrade for a time, it would be different.”

“I have little influence, I fear.”

He threw up his hands and shook his head, and was silent.

During the pause Buller brought me a card. It was Gatrina’s. She had
come after all.

“The Princess is here, Colonel, and with your leave I will go to her.
I’ll send my man in ten minutes, and you can say just yes or no.”

“You will secure the pledge of secrecy?”

“Otherwise I will not ask you to say a word.”

It looked as if I were going to win, after all, and I felt in a
confident mood as I hurried to Gatrina, giving Buller his instructions
on the way.

An elderly woman was with her, at whom I glanced with little interest
as the name, the Countess Vashti, was mentioned.

Gatrina met me with a stiff ceremonious bow; and her voice was cold and
hard. But her eyes were full of trouble.

“We come by the Queen’s desire, Mr. Bergwyn, to bid you a formal
welcome to Belgrade on her and His Majesty’s behalf,” she said,
formally and distantly.

I expressed my gratification in equally formal terms; and we sat
talking generalities, about the Capital, the ball of the previous
night, and so on; just commonplace surface chatter, until Buller
entered and gave me a slip of paper with the one word “Yes” written
upon it. I had won; and after a little more make-weight twaddle for the
benefit of the Countess Vashti, I got to the pith of things.

“There are some points arising out of our conversation at the Palace,
last night, Princess, which have occurred to me, and I should be glad
of an opportunity of discussing them with you privately.”

“Her Majesty’s object in desiring me to see you to-day, Mr. Bergwyn,
was that I should speak with you privately if you desired it.” As she
said this she glanced at the companion, who bowed acquiescence.

I rose at once and giving the old lady a bundle of papers I led Gatrina
to another room.

“I told you last night that I would endeavour to give you proofs of
what I said. As to the aim of the Russian party there is no need for
proof; the Baroness herself last night admitted to me that she had
instigated your abduction; that you were to have been taken to Maglai;
and that when there your marriage with Duke Barinski was to be forced
upon you.”

“She has said almost as much to me to-day--among other things,” was her
reply, very coldly spoken. I could guess at the “other things,” but
there was no time then to enter upon any defence.

“As to the power and feeling of the army I can prove my words. Colonel
Petrosch is here and he will himself convince you. Will you come to
him?”

“It seems incredible. How have you prevailed upon him to speak of this
to me?”

“Does that matter, so long as he does speak?”

“I shall be at liberty to report what he may say?”

“No, certainly not. It is for your ears only. You asked for the proofs
of what I said. I offer it to you; but it must, of course, be under a
pledge of secrecy.”

She hesitated in anxious perplexity. “I will see him. I can at any rate
act upon any knowledge so gained.”

“It is for that object I wish you to be convinced.”

We went then to the room where I had left the Colonel and Nikolitch,
and both men rose and bowed to Gatrina as we entered, the Colonel
stiffly, Nikolitch with unmistakable interest.

“Time is pressing and the interview need not take long,” I said. “What
I wish is that you will convince the Princess Gatrina as you have
convinced me, Colonel Petrosch, of the intentions of the officers for
whom you speak so far as they affect her.”

Gatrina sat down and looked at him very closely.

The Colonel on his side was not without embarrassment as to how to
begin. At length he said: “The Princess will, no doubt, be aware that
the family of which she is a member has incurred the extreme hostility
of the army. And what I said to you before, Mr. Bergwyn, I repeat
now--if the Princess consults her safety and interests she will leave
the country at once.”

Gatrina’s lip curled. “And if she does not consult either by adopting a
course which she would consider cowardly and consent to be frightened
away, what then?”

Antagonism and disbelief inspired the reply: the antagonism founded
upon the Court view of the army’s attitude; the disbelief proceeding
from her own private feelings. Nikolitch pulled his moustache and
glanced at her with a mixture of admiration and concern; while the grim
old Colonel shrugged his shoulders.

“I should apologise, Princess. I am not your Highness’s adviser, nor
had I any right to assume such a position.”

“Is this all you have brought me to hear, Mr. Bergwyn?” she asked, with
scarcely veiled disdain.

“No. I wish you to be convinced on two points--that the army is united
and must be the deciding force in the present crisis; and that it is
against your chance of succession to the Throne. Colonel Petrosch can
speak with authority on both--if he will.”

“On both those points I can speak absolutely,” he replied; and very
succinctly and clearly he made good his case as to the unanimity of the
great majority of the regiments. That he succeeded in impressing her
deeply was plain.

“And as to myself?” she asked.

“I much regret to have to say the army would not consent to serve under
your Highness, or any member of your family,” he answered, decision in
every syllable.

The gravity of the words appealed to us all.

Gatrina paused. “Any member of my family, Colonel Petrosch?” she
repeated. “That would include His Majesty himself.”

“Madam, I have spoken under pressure; but my words stand and are not
to be recalled,” he declared. “I speak not alone for myself, but for
the entire committee of officers.”

“Your words are full of dangerous insinuations. What do you mean to
imply?”

“I can add little to what I have said. The plans of the army have been
much canvassed in the Court and elsewhere, and much misunderstood. But
they have been decided upon; although, of course, that decision is
secret.”

“Why do you tell me this?” she asked quickly.

“At Mr. Bergwyn’s desire.”

“And why?”

“Your pardon; that is a question to be put to him.”

I got up to end the interview; and after a moment Gatrina arose also,
and with a bow to the two men went out with me. We returned to the room
where we had been alone.

“I have kept my word. I trust you are convinced,” I said.

“I am bewildered. I don’t know whether to take it seriously and be
gravely alarmed, or to scoff at the whole thing.”

“I think you must take it very seriously.”

“But it means that the officers are all but in open revolt against the
Throne, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“You know the many reports to the same effect, all quite openly
canvassed.”

“How have you influenced Colonel Petrosch to speak in this way to me?”

“It must be enough that he has so spoken. The question does not touch
that of your decision as to your own action.”

“Do you counsel me to run away, then?” she cried, indignantly and
almost contemptuously.

“I am afraid I have no influence with you.”

“No. That is true--now.”

“Why do you emphasise that word in particular--now?”

She disregarded the question, but after thinking earnestly for a few
seconds, her brows knitted and her face intensely serious, she said:
“The one serious thing is the statement that the regiments are now
unanimous. Do you believe that?”

“I have not the shadow of a doubt.”

“Why are you so set upon frightening me?”

“You asked me that last night. I told you I have no such wish; I desire
only that you shall know the truth.”

“I shall not leave my country, Mr. Bergwyn--even if all this be true.
Nothing shall make me do that.”

“I feared that would be your decision.”

“You hoped I should be a coward then! Thank you.”

“That is not how I should describe my thoughts; but phrases are not of
much consequence where things themselves are so grave.”

“If what this Colonel insinuates be true, the Queen herself would be in
trouble and even in danger; would you have me desert her? Do you mean
you think that would not be the act of a coward?”

“If your remaining to marry the Prince Albrevics would help her, I
should say it would be cowardly to leave.”

She flushed with anger. “You do Her Majesty wrong and dishonour, Mr.
Bergwyn, in saying that. She knows now that, like the rest of us, she
has been mistaken in regard to the Prince. I have spoken freely with
her and the marriage will not take place.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” I replied in a carefully restrained tone,
hiding alike my surprise and unbounded delight at the news. But she had
not exhausted her anger against me.

“Like so many men you seem to find delight in wronging one of the
noblest women that ever lived--the staunchest friend that a girl could
have.” It was an easy inference that the Queen had talked her over, but
I admired Gatrina all the more for this chivalrous and warm defence.

“If it be possible I should like you to believe that I find no pleasure
at all in wronging any woman. But I do not take the same view of the
Queen as you do.”

“You have allowed yourself to be poisoned against her. I know by whom,
and, perhaps, you are not to blame.” A reference to Elma this and an
unmistakable sneer.

“I think I understand your reference, and there are several things I
wish to make plainer to you----”

“I beg you not to trouble, Mr. Bergwyn. I wish to leave now.”

“You will let me explain surely.”

“There is no room for any explanations. I know enough, thank you. Let
me go to the Countess Vashti.”

“You are very unjust and very hard. Last night after I had seen you I
had a conversation with the----”

“I am quite aware of that,” she broke in, smiling angrily.

“For God’s sake don’t misunderstand me,” I cried, earnestly. “You must
let me speak of it. It means----”

Impressed by my vehemence, I think, she was going to listen when
the door of the room was thrust open with some violence, and Prince
Albrevics entered, followed by Elma herself. The Prince was furiously
angry; his face more crimson than usual even, and his manner truculent
and threatening.

“So it’s true and you _are_ here, Gatrina. What is the meaning of it? I
have come to fetch you away.”

His hectoring tone and the insolent ignoring of me made me hot.

“The Princess Gatrina is here by Her Majesty’s desire, sir,” I said, as
calmly as I could.

“I have nothing to say to you--yet,” he answered, first giving me a
vicious look and then ostentatiously turning his back upon me.

Elma laughed, audibly enough for us all to hear.

“I have no need of your escort, Prince,” said Gatrina. “The Countess
Vashti is with me.”

“You will come with me,” he retorted, curtly.

“On the contrary, I shall go with the Countess. Will you take me to
her, Mr. Bergwyn?”

“Certainly.” I went toward the door. I observed that she had not taken
the slightest notice of Elma.

“I have the right to escort you, Gatrina. We don’t need the
interference of any foreigners.”

Gatrina was in the act of leaving but at this she stopped and turned to
him.

“You are in error, Prince. You have no longer the right which you
imply. Her Majesty will explain to you the reason. Your arm, if you
please, Mr. Bergwyn.” And taking my arm she swept past him, her head
high and looking every inch a Princess.

He changed colour at her words, and glared at me with a malignity that
I expected to find utterance in fierce words. But he held them back and
just did the cursing internally, I suppose.

“The Princess’s carriage,” I said to Buller as we crossed the hall to
the room where the Countess was waiting.

Just as she came out and we stood in the hall, an unexpected incident
occurred.

Chris appeared from somewhere and, recognising Gatrina, rushed to her
with signs of extravagant delight.

She left my arm and bending over him patted him and made much of him in
her old way; and the dog whimpered and frolicked about her, fawning on
and licking her as if he had been a young pup. In the midst of it Elma
and Prince Albrevics came out and watched them.

“What’s the meaning of that?” growled the Prince, with a scowl.

“One might almost think they were old friends,” answered Elma, in her
sweetest tone.

Gatrina paid no heed to either remark, although she must have heard
them both; and when she raised her head I saw in her brightly shining
eyes an expression I had not seen since I came to Belgrade.

“Down, Chris, down,” I cried, for the dog was loath to let her go.

“He remembers me, Mr. Bergwyn; I should not like him to have
forgotten,” said Gatrina, very gently, but meaningly. It was her way of
answering Elma’s sneer.

I accompanied them to the carriage, Chris coming with us, and his great
wistful eyes followed her all the time until she drove away.

As I returned into the house, the Prince passed me on the threshold. I
stopped, meaning to have some plain-pointed talk with him.

But he prevented that. “I don’t quarrel with a man in his own house,
sir, but we shall meet again,” he said, and hurried away without giving
me a chance to reply.




CHAPTER XX.

THE INSULT.


Gatrina’s visit resulted in little more than a fiasco, owing to the
interruption of Prince Albrevics. I re-entered the house in a quite fit
mood to quarrel with Elma for having brought him upon the scene as she
had.

Nikolitch had come out in search of me, however, and was speaking to
her in the hall, so that I could say nothing.

“You will not be long, Bergwyn?” he asked.

“I am ready now.”

“I will wait while you despatch your business with Colonel Petrosch,
Mr. Bergwyn,” said Elma, readily. “I am in no hurry.”

“I regret I can give you no time to-day, Baroness,” I said, bluntly
intending it as her dismissal. But she laughed it away.

“You can come and tell me so when he has gone,” she answered, and
turned into one of the rooms, contriving to convey a most irritating
suggestion that she was quite at home and perfectly accustomed to
humour my whims.

“How did she know Petrosch was here?” asked Nikolitch. “She is a
wonderful woman. She knows everything. She will understand why he has
come.”

“Let her,” said I, with a shrug. “It makes no difference;” and with
that we went back to the Colonel.

The rest of the business was soon despatched. I handed him the
undertaking I had drawn up and thus stood pledged to support the cause
of the army on the conditions I had already specified. When the Colonel
had gone Nikolitch remained, and when we had fixed up an engagement to
dine together that night, he said:

“I think you have done the right thing, Bergwyn; and there is no doubt
your action will strengthen the moderates among us. It will make
against the policy of violence; and may render it impossible. I hope so
with all my heart,” he said, earnestly.

“What will happen?”

“A forced abdication. As I have told you it has been put to the King
more than once, and he has refused obstinately. But now, backed by the
united army, it will be different.”

“If he should still refuse?”

“He’ll have to go. The Queen has made it imperative. For a clever woman
she has made amazing blunders. Of course you understand the Russian
partisans won’t love you any more than the Queen will continue to be
friendly to you now.”

“If she gets to know what has passed.”

He nodded significantly toward the room where Elma had gone. “She’ll
see to that, probably--unless she has some other move. If you can stop
her, I should.”

“I have no influence with her and seek none.”

“That’s not the story she persists in telling, my dear fellow,” he said
with a slow smile.

“It’s the story I tell--and it’s the true one, Nikolitch. What story do
you mean this of hers?”

“I’ll tell you to-night. I’ve a lot to do now. Of course you know your
own cards; but if I were you, I should keep in with her. She can be
dangerous, as I’ve told you more than once. Well, till this evening
then,” he added lightly, and went away.

What story had Elma been spreading now? I had better know it at once, I
thought, and went to her to ask.

“The Colonel has gone, then? And the Captain, too. I am glad you have
him for a friend, Mr. Bergwyn,” she said, in her lightest manner. “You
would have found Belgrade dull without a man friend. Yet you don’t
quite understand the captain’s position?”

“Did you stay to enlighten me?”

“Oh dear, no. I have much more important matters to discuss. But I
wish I had warned you that although he is on excellent terms with the
officers--as he is with everyone, being a delightful man--yet he is
not in the inner circle. He is of great use to them; but he knows only
what they choose to tell him. He has been of great use to them, for
instance, in getting you over to their cause; but of course he has led
you to make a great mistake.”

“He has just told me that you have spread some report concerning you
and myself. What is that?”

“I thought he would. He hinted to me just now in the minute I had with
him that he had heard something; and naturally I did not undeceive him.
He seemed greatly mystified; of course I knew why,” she added.

“Perhaps you will enlighten me?”

“Don’t you think it is rather a delicate question?”

“I wish you would speak plainly,” I broke out, brusquely.

“I suppose it was in this way. You see you and I were together for some
considerable time last night at the Palace; and as people had heard
rumours of the reason for your presence in Belgrade--rumours connecting
us, I mean; I suppose they put two and two together--at least they put
us together, that is to say.”

“Captain Nikolitch puts the origin of the rumour down to you, Baroness.”

“I don’t think I object. American millionaires are very rare in
Belgrade, and if people chose to think that I was engaged to one, was
it likely that I should have so little of feminine vanity as to be
displeased?”

I understood now the reason for Gatrina’s coldness, her marked
estrangement during her visit, and the undermeaning of some of her
words. She had heard this infernal story. Elma enjoyed my dismay; and I
believe understood the cause of it.

“Do you mean that you actually gave countenance to such a thing?”

“Pray don’t look so painfully shocked, Mr. Bergwyn,” she mocked.

“You will place me in the extremely invidious position of having to
deny the report, Baroness.”

Her laugh at this had all the ring of genuineness. “How will you do
it, Mr. Bergwyn?” she asked, in renewed mockery of my earnestness.
“Think. How can you do it? You and I know that it has no sort of
foundation in fact; but how can we stop the tongue of gossip? Let us be
sensible and just live it down. Other people’s names have been coupled
together in the same way in mistake before now; but they have not
been married in consequence. Nor shall we be, I suppose. But it is a
delightful situation none the less, and just what I desired.”

“I remembered what you said last night,” I exclaimed, angrily.

“You had better laugh at it all than be angry.”

“I have no laughter to spare for it.”

“Ah, that is because of Gatrina. Naturally, too. But it was she who
made it necessary, and of course, so far as she is concerned, the
desired effect has already been produced. In a week or two the thing
will die a natural death, as such things do; and neither of us will be
a krone the worse.”

“I think you are the most exasperating woman that ever lived,” I said
hotly.

“I can quite understand that thought. As I told you last night I have
to play many parts. This one you and Gatrina together have forced upon
me.” She spoke lightly and shrugged her shoulders, but after a moment
was serious. “I told you also, last night, that if you forced me to
fight, I would do it openly. Gatrina’s trust in you was in our way
and had to be broken somehow. It was broken when she heard this news.
The Queen had to use the utmost pressure to induce her to come to you
to-day. Her Majesty did me the honour to ask me in Gatrina’s presence
whether there was any truth in the report of my secret engagement to
you--it is supposed to be no more than secret--and I could not, at
least I did not, deny it.”

“It is infamous,” I broke in, passionately.

“Infamous if you like, but necessary. You have seen Gatrina for the
last time, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“I will go to the Queen herself and deny it.”

“You might, if she would receive you. But Gatrina was supposed to be
coming as a last step to win you and your money to the side of the
Court. Can she carry back any news other than that her mission as
Queen’s Advocate has failed? You are now, indeed, pledged to support
the cause of Her Majesty’s bitterest enemies--the army. And even angry
as you are now, you can judge the prospect of your reception. You have
chosen your side and must take the bitter with the sweet.”

She dwelt on all this with telling deliberateness, and the pitiless
logic of every measured word told upon me. But the effect was not what
she had intended. Instead of growing more angry, I began to regain
coolness. The perception of difficulties has always a steadying result
with me, and I put aside my anger at once. It was too dangerous a
luxury at such a juncture.

“You are building your theory upon the assumption that I have thrown in
my lot with Colonel Petrosch and his friends. Do so by all means if it
pleases you,” I said.

“I judge by what I have found here: but I shall know for certain
within a few hours. I do not act in the dark. But if you have not, it
will make no difference in regard to the Queen’s Advocate.”

“I prefer not to discuss the Princess with you.”

“You will find someone else who will wish to do so. Prince Albrevics
attributes the failure of his marriage to you and will force a quarrel
upon you. Rumours of that Bosnian adventure have reached him. I wish to
warn you.”

“Have you anything more to say?” I asked as I rose. “If you have, it
will be well to say it at once, as you will have no opportunity in the
future.”

“I suppose I have made you feel like that, and that you won’t believe I
am sorry. You have driven me so hard. Yet I--” She paused, looked down,
and then rising came toward me and said half wistfully, half defiantly:
“I need not be your enemy, and would much rather be your friend. Why
won’t you see this? All the influence I have could be yours if you
would only let it be so.”

“I prefer to trust to myself and take my own course, thank you,” I
said, coldly.

She sighed wearily. “I suppose we all have our hours of weakness and
perhaps this is mine. I am not ashamed for you to see it. Let me be
your friend, Chase. I--I won’t ask for anything else. But I feel such a
coward now for all that I have had to do against you. I could help you
in all--all except Gatrina. That can never be possible for you. But you
are being so shamefully betrayed.”

“I have given you my answer.”

“Yes, I know, and I know how dogged you are. But if you trust
these officers, this Colonel Petrosch, he will only deceive you.
I told you before, that their policy is to be summed up in one
word--assassination; if once they resolve to move. We all know that and
dread it for the sake of Servia. And if you help them with money, they
will take it and only lie to you. Everyone lies here. It is the common
coin of negotiation. Trust me a little, just a little, for the sake of
old times, and I’ll be true to you. I swear on my soul I will.”

“I do not need your help.”

“I am not acting or lying now. Trust me and I will give up all this
Russian spying business and never touch it again. I want to feel I am
working for you, not against you. My God, I will do anything, anything,
if you will but let me.”

“I have already had too clear a proof of that to wish for any more.
Your carriage is waiting, Baroness.”

She gazed at me intently; and gradually her features and the expression
of her eyes hardened.

“As you will--but that decision will cost you dear. The men whom you
have helped or are going to help with your money are assassins; and
when they have done their work and when the city runs red with blood,
and both the Queen and her advocate, Gatrina, lie dead among their
victims, you will remember this hour and your rejection of my help; and
eat out your heart in belated, unavailing regret. Do you still persist
in sending me away?”

“Your carriage is waiting,” I repeated doggedly; and she went without
another word.

I returned to my library feeling very much disturbed. I was cooking a
dish that didn’t promise to be easy of digestion. I could see that,
without the help of Nikolitch’s words and Elma’s dramatic confirmation
of them. What she had said about assassination had impressed me more
than I cared to own; and I recalled Nikolitch’s uneasy hope on that
score. Two people more unlike than he and Elma it would be difficult to
find; and yet both appeared to hold much the same opinion.

Then there was this reported engagement to Elma and all the string
of complications arising out of it. There was only too much reason
to believe that it had served its end, as she had said, in regard to
Gatrina. It was like a net about my feet, entangling and hampering me;
and how to cut myself free from it was more than I could see.

I had given my word to Gatrina on the previous night that my coming to
Belgrade had had nothing to do with Elma; and if I had but known of the
report that morning I could have denied it to her. I could have gnashed
my teeth as I recalled her phrase about “other things” she had heard
from Elma at the Court. I could see now what she had meant; and it was
just the opening I could have used, had I but known; perhaps given
me for the very purpose. I had let it pass in ignorance; but I could
readily understand how she would interpret my silence.

To contradict it all now was infinitely difficult. I couldn’t walk
about the streets shouting it out to the crowd. The door of the Palace
was closed to me; and probably that of Gatrina’s house as well.

But her visit by the Queen’s desire, as she had so coldly said, gave me
the right to return it, and I did so that afternoon. Without result,
however. The Princess was at the Palace, I was informed.

After a moment’s thought I resolved to go there; but I did no good by
that. After waiting some time a message was brought me that Her Majesty
regretted she could not receive me just then. I asked for Gatrina
next, only to be again refused; and I returned home in a bad temper in
consequence.

I had not recovered it when the time came for my appointment with
Nikolitch for dinner; and he saw it.

“You look worried,” he said.

“It’ll pass off,” I replied.

“No bad news from the States, I hope? Not another financial crisis.
They flourish over there gaily, don’t they?”

“Men make fools of themselves there as elsewhere; and with us it takes
that form pretty often. By the way, you were going to tell me some news
about the Baroness von Tulken.”

“They say you’re engaged to be married to her.”

“Who says it?”

“Well, I rather fancy she does.”

“It isn’t true. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s what the other side say.”

“Who are the other side; and why the devil do people want to gossip and
chatter about me?”

“My dear fellow, the place is full of gossip about you. I don’t know
whether you care to hear it.”

“It don’t amount to anything what they say--at least to me.”

“I suppose it doesn’t. But when a man’s as rich as you are, they will
talk. Have you heard that story about your dog?”

“My dog? What do you mean?”

“That big brute of yours, Chris. They say he saved the Princess
Gatrina’s life in the Bosnian hills or somewhere; and that you were in
it too. Of course I laughed at it.”

“Naturally. So should I,” I said; but I was in no laughing mood. “How
do you suppose such a tale got going?”

“Someone with a grudge against the Princess started it. You know what
spiteful devils there are hanging about the Court?”

“I suppose there are.”

“Rather. Peck each other’s eyes out if they could. But this was a
blackguard tale intended to compromise her with you. Of course there
was a lot of talk about that carrying-off affair. Some wanted to make
out she bolted from Albrevics. Shouldn’t blame her. He’s a beast.
Hullo, there he is; and not so drunk as usual at this hour either.
I should be careful of him, Bergwyn. He was abusing you to-day to a
friend of mine. He’s seen us, I think, and is coming this way. Hang the
fellow, what does he want to sit at the next table to us for?”

Not wishing a dispute in so public a place, I was careful not to look
around as the Prince and a couple of friends took their places at the
table next to us and began to laugh and jest loudly.

Nikolitch nodded to the Prince’s companions and we went on with our
dinner, the talk drifting to our old experiences in the years when we
had first known each other.

The Prince, as we could not fail to see, was drinking heavily, and I
could tell from Nikolitch’s face that like myself he was beginning to
expect trouble. Once or twice the man was ill-bred enough to whisper
to his companions while pointing at me; and then all three would burst
into laughter.

“Should we have our coffee inside?” said Nikolitch at length--we were
dining in the open.

“Yes, if you like;” said I, and we both rose. As I did so I touched,
quite unintentionally, the chair of the Prince. He had his wine-glass
in his hand, and while pretending to move out of my way, he
deliberately spilt the wine all over me.

“To the devil with your clumsiness,” he cried, angrily, as he jumped to
his feet; “making me waste good liquor in that way. Oh, it’s the Yankee
money-man, is it?” he added, with an oath and a sneer.

“I touched your chair quite accidentally and too slightly to have
caused you to spill your wine.”

“That’s a lie. You did it on purpose,” he cried, loudly.

“Prince Albrevics!” exclaimed Nikolitch; while the two men with him got
up looking very serious.

“I can’t allow anyone to say that to me, sir,” I said, keeping quite
cool. “I must ask you to take that word back right here.”

“Not for any cowardly Yankee that was ever born.”

“Perhaps you will do it when you are sober then,” said I.

“I’m cursed if I’ll let a Yankee pig say I’m drunk;” and he rushed
forward to strike me. I pushed him back; but this only infuriated him
and he sprang at me again.

I had taken more than enough from him, however, and as he reached me
the second time, his hand raised for a blow, I got mine in first and
knocked him down.

The place was instantly in an uproar.

“Stay and do what’s necessary, Nikolitch. I’m in your hands. I’m going
to smoke over there,” I said, pointing to a table at a distance. And
taking out my cigar-case I walked away as the Prince’s friends were
picking him up.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE DUEL.


I must have hit the Prince hard, judging by the effects. His friends
picked him up and after a minute or so led him away into the hotel.
Then Nikolitch came across to me, his look very troubled.

“This is an ugly business, Bergwyn. He’s badly marked and half dazed
with your blow.”

“I am more sorry for it than I can say,” I replied. I regretted it
intensely indeed.

“It was his fault--his only. We all saw that. He came to the place with
the intention of quarrelling. He knew we were to dine here. One of his
companions heard it from a friend of mine. He behaved abominably. We
all see that: even his friends.”

“Oh, yes, the insult was deliberate. I couldn’t take that. What is to
happen?”

“I said that we would go to your house: and should be there, if they
had a message to bring. Shall we go?”

“It means a meeting, of course,” I said, as we left.

“Of course. Have you been out before?”

“No; we don’t settle our quarrels this way in the States; but I’ve been
in more than one ugly scrap and come through.”

“He’s an old hand at it and is an excellent swordsman. But you will
have choice of weapons. You beat him, through being so cool. He
generally gets the choice of weapons, taking care to give the insult
and so be the challenged party. That was his move just now. He first
insulted you, thinking you would challenge him; and when you didn’t, he
meant to strike you so that you’d be obliged. I was glad you prevented
that.”

“I’d give a good deal to be out of it,” I said, after a pause. My
companion glanced at me in some surprise.

“I don’t see how you can avoid it.”

“I’m not afraid. I don’t mean that. But coming right on top of what you
were saying about the Princess, it will set tongues wagging about her.”

“You mean the dog story?” I nodded. “You don’t mean there’s anything in
that?”

“There’s one woman who knows it all and by this time has the proofs.
The Baroness von Tulken.”

“To the devil with that woman. She’s in everything,” he exclaimed. “Of
course that’s where it comes from: and of course she told Albrevics.
It’s an ugly story for him to hear. You’ll have to be careful. He means
mischief.”

“I’m not thinking about him.”

“No, but he’s been thinking about you, Bergwyn. What will you do?”

“What the devil can I do, man? If it would help things for her, I’d
choose pistols and kill him; but it would only make matters worse for
her. Everyone will set the quarrel down to her; and that’s just what
I’d have given anything to avoid.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t hurt her. It doesn’t hurt a woman here for two men to
quarrel about her--choosing, of course, a decent pretext--and for one
of ’em to be killed. It’s happened often enough.” His indifferent tone
no less than his words astonished me. “Are you a good shot?” he added
after a pause.

“I can shoot a bit, and use a sword well enough to keep myself out of
danger, probably, if it comes to that.”

“It will come to one or the other, Bergwyn. There’s no other way now.
Have you any foils here?” he asked as we reached my house; and when I
produced them he proposed that we should try a bout.

We took off our coats and set to work at once. Mine was a very
indifferent style, very rough and ready, and his particularly polished,
acquired in the latest Italian school. But mine served me well enough
for defensive purposes. He was the better swordsman, with a dozen more
tricks of fence than I possessed, but he could not break through my
guard. He touched me more than once; but not so as to have inflicted
any serious wound, had the weapons been sharp.

“You haven’t much to fear from the Prince,” he said in one of the
breathing spaces. “His is also the Italian style; and he’s better than
I am; but you have a devil of a defence. Can you force the fighting a
bit? Try now.”

We crossed again and this time, after a long, defensive play I changed
my tactics suddenly, and touched him.

“You got me in the arm,” he cried, directly. “And well done, too.
You’ll wear the Prince down. That’s his one failing--he can’t keep his
temper. I have no fear for to-morrow. You have an iron wrist.”

We were thus engaged when Buller brought word that the friends of
Prince Albrevics had arrived. Nikolitch put on his coat and went to
them. He was in high spirits.

“It is the challenge, of course,” he said when he returned. “Shall we
make it swords or pistols? I have arranged to meet to-morrow morning
a mile or two out of the city. If you don’t want to kill him I should
choose swords.”

“Let it be swords then,” I agreed.

“He’s got a devil of a bruise on his face, they tell me,” he declared
with obvious glee, as he left me again. “As if a horse had kicked him,
one of them says.”

“We’ve arranged it all,” he reported when he came back again. “They
were surprised at your choosing swords, because of his reputation, but
it will be all right. You’ll wear him down. I know him. And now I’ll be
off and find someone to act with me. Get to bed early and have as much
sleep as you can. I’ll be round in time in the morning.”

I sat for some time after he had left me, smoking and thinking. I
regretted the whole thing more than I can say; but when I found my
thoughts getting into a very gloomy vein, I put the brake on; and
taking Nikolitch’s advice, went off to bed and slept soundly until
Buller called me.

Nikolitch came in good time bringing a friend, a Captain Astic, and we
drove off. It was a gloriously fine morning, the air cool, refreshing
and brisk.

“Too much sun,” was Nikolitch’s practical comment. He looked at
everything as if it affected the matter in hand, and spoke of it as
though it were the most ordinary course in the world that two sane men
should go out to do murder if possible.

Of my own sensations I need not say much. I was thoughtful, preoccupied
indeed, and gloomy. I don’t think I was afraid; although the
deliberateness of the preparations and the anticipation of having to
meet a man in cold blood and fight him for my life, made the affair
appear almost formidable. I was far from having a wish to do the Prince
any injury, to say nothing of taking his life; and my chief thought was
the impossible wish that the whole matter, quarrel and all, could have
been wiped out of the record of things done and be deemed never to have
occurred.

I don’t think I spoke during the drive out; but I remember taking
notice of many trifles. There was a loose button in the upholstering
of the carriage: some stains on Captain Astic’s uniform caught my eye,
and I contrasted it with the smart grooming of Nikolitch. My friend
was awkward in handling the pair of swords we had with us; and he and
the other joked about it. Trifles of that kind struck me; and when the
drive came to an end and we left the carriage, I can recall my distinct
sensation of relief, followed by a fidgetty impatience to get the
affair over.

I was irritated because the other side kept us waiting a considerable
time. My seconds lit cigarettes and first picked out the best spot for
the encounter; then in low tones discussed the delay and the probable
reasons for it; whether the Prince was too ill to come; how long we
need wait for him; and so on. They appeared to me to speak with a
certain amount of disappointment, as one might regret being robbed of a
promised entertainment.

The air began to chill them and they stamped about and clapped their
gloved hands to keep the blood circulating. But I felt nothing of that.
I sat quite still on the trunk of a fallen tree and was conscious
mainly of a sort of impressive awe making everything seem unreal,
mingled with a growing desire that the fight could be avoided; or
rather the necessity for it obliterated--for I was perfectly aware of
its inevitability.

I could not bring myself to wish to harm the man I was to meet. Once or
twice I sought to rouse my anger against him by recalling the insult
of the previous evening and the foulness of his words and conduct. But
even while I appreciated its wantonness and inexcusable grossness, I
could not stir myself to any real passion. My sense of regret for the
whole business overshadowed everything.

I believe my companions thought I was suffering from fear; but it was
not conscious fear, if fear at all. I did not anticipate any serious
results to myself from the duel. Such a thought never occurred to me:
it was the lethargy of an overwhelming revolt from the affair as a
whole.

It began to grow less absorbing when I heard Captain Astic tell
Nikolitch, in a tone of unmistakable relief and satisfaction, that the
others were coming.

Nikolitch came and told me, and I noticed a solicitude and anxiety in
his tone and look that were new.

“Very well,” I said, with half a sigh.

“You have nothing to fear,” he whispered, that Astic might not hear him.

“I do fear nothing, Nikolitch,” I said, with a smile; and his face
brightened at the smile.

As soon as they came the four seconds busied themselves in settling the
preliminaries and then Nikolitch introduced a fifth man to me.

“Doctor Astic, the Captain’s brother, Bergwyn.”

We shook hands and the doctor had a steady look into my eyes. “It’s a
chilly morning although so bright--but we get them here sometimes,” he
said.

“Any morning’s good enough for this sort of thing,” I answered; and he
had another stare at me and then put down his case of instruments on
the tree where I had been sitting.

“Will you get ready, Mr. Bergwyn?” asked Captain Astic.

I saw the Prince already had his coat off and I made ready, the Captain
meanwhile pointing out the positions we were to take with cheerful but
professional coolness.

As they placed us, I saw the mark of my blow on the Prince’s face
and I noticed also that he was none too steady on his feet. I called
Nikolitch to me and pointed this out.

“It’s his affair,” he answered with a shrug of the shoulders.

“I can’t fight a sick man,” I said, sharply. “Speak to the doctor about
it.”

“But it’s so irregular,” he objected.

“I insist,” I declared.

He spoke to Astic and then to the Prince’s seconds and after some
discussion, in which all four took part, they called the doctor up to
them. Then his seconds spoke to the Prince and some angry words passed;
and again the four seconds consulted. Then Nikolitch came to me looking
angry and crestfallen.

“I’m sorry; but they think you’re afraid, Bergwyn,” he said.

“I don’t care a red cent what they think. Does the doctor say the
Prince is fit to fight? He can hardly stand; look at him lurching
there.”

“Oh, Astic says he’s all right: and he knows him.”

“Then he takes the responsibility. I won’t.”

“He’s only in a devil of a rage.”

“Very well, then. I’m ready.”

A minute later the word was given and we engaged. I had no lethargy
left now. The last vestige of it vanished when I felt his blade
pressing mine and met his scowl of positively devilish hate. I needed
no more than a glance into his eyes to see that he had come out to kill
me, and that my life depended upon my skill and coolness.

But he was either too ill or too angry to be really dangerous. He
attacked me furiously from the start; but he fought so wildly that
I found myself quite able to hold him in check, and I let him exert
himself to the utmost with the sure knowledge that in such a state he
could not keep it up long.

I think he had reckoned upon being able to treat me with the same
contempt as a swordsman as he had treated me as a man the night before;
and when he found out his mistake, it provoked his rage until he fought
with the frenzy of a madman.

Had he been himself and not so furiously reckless, I think he would
have had an easy enough victory, for he had a hundred tricks of fence
where I had none.

He seemed to realise something of this, too, when we had been hard at
it for some time, for he began to fight with less vehemence and much
more wariness.

But he had wasted his strength by that time; and to waste it still
further, I commenced to push matters a bit from my side. He began to
breathe hard. The pressure of his blade against mine weakened. Twice
his foot slipped and he exposed himself dangerously; and then I knew I
was going to beat him.

I took no advantage of his slips. The man was ill, or drunk, or
suffering from the effects of drink; and I could not bring myself even
to wound him.

I just kept to my tactics of wearing him down, defending myself when he
attacked me and pressing him whenever he sought to ease off to get his
breath back.

At last it became little more than a burlesque. He was so winded and
exhausted and so unsteady on his legs that he could scarcely continue
the fight, scarcely hold his sword, indeed; and when I realised this
I made a big, pressing effort, and seizing my moment, whipped his
sword out of his hand and left him gasping impotently in dismay and
breathlessness and lurching like a discomfited, angry fool, until he
began to clamour to renew the fight.

The seconds interfered at this, however; even his own men protesting. I
stood while they settled it; and then turned away to dress.

Nikolitch was loud in praises of me as I put on my coat, but regretted
I had not wounded him; as he might want to have another meeting.

“I shouldn’t meet him again. It’s an additional insult that he should
have come out in such a state. And you’d better let him know I shan’t
meet him again. If he monkeys with me again I’ll settle it in a more
American fashion; and if there’s to be another fight of the kind, it
shall begin where this morning’s has ended.”

To my astonishment Nikolitch carried the message to one of the Prince’s
seconds and then we left the ground and drove back to the city.

I kept Nikolitch and Captain Astic to breakfast, and they could speak
of nothing but the fight; criticising it with almost as much fond
enthusiasm as if they had been experts describing a good game of
baseball.

I was glad when they left me, indeed, and I could settle down to a
quiet review of the situation. Nikolitch was to see me again in the
afternoon; and he declared joyously and with a certain air of rather
self-congratulatory importance, that they would both have a busy time
in seeing that a true account of the duel was spread about.

“You are a fortunate man, Mr. Bergwyn, and will be a popular one,” said
Captain Astic. “The Prince is thoroughly well hated and people will be
ready to make much of you.”

I did not regard it at all in that light. It was Gatrina’s good-will,
not that of the crowd, which I sought; and I felt she would hear with
strong prejudice that I had allowed myself to be drawn into a quarrel
which she would know well enough could only have arisen on her account.

Estranged as she already was by this monstrous story of my secret
understanding with Elma, she would be quite incapable of appreciating
my motives or feelings; and the fact that I could not get to her to
explain everything irritated me almost beyond endurance.

It was my helplessness in that direction which tried me more than
anything. She had set up a barrier between us which I could not break
through. There was nothing I could do but fret and fume and pace up
and down the room and down and up again, in vain imaginings as to how
things were to end.

To an active temperament like mine nothing could be more galling.
Prompt decision and action were mental instincts with me. I was
accustomed in all affairs of life to take hold of a thing, plan my
course and follow it up quickly and energetically. And yet here I had
somehow allowed the reins to be snatched from my grasp and could only
wring my hands in fatuous futility while I was being carried I could
not tell where.

Do something I must; so I made another effort to see Gatrina, and
pushed it until I met with a very ugly rebuff. I was told she was out,
and I declared I would wait until she returned.

I waited, and waited, and waited until my patience was exhausted,
only to be told by her servants that while I had been waiting she had
returned and gone out again without seeing me.

I went home and wrote to her that I must see her on a matter of the
most urgent importance. I gave the letter to Buller with instructions
to place it personally in Gatrina’s hands.

An hour and more passed, and when he came he brought a reply in her
handwriting. I tore the envelope open and my own letter, unopened, was
enclosed and with it a cutting from a paper of that morning’s date,
announcing in guarded terms my engagement to Elma.

At first I flushed with mortification and resentment, but then caught a
glimpse of light.

If it was really the lie about Elma which had estranged her, I had but
to get the truth to her to change that anger and make her feel the
injustice she had done me.

I cast about for the means. She would neither see me nor read my
letters; so that I must find someone who could get access to her.

I thought instantly of Karasch. I would send him to her and let Chris
go with him as a mute ambassador. This might touch her for the sake of
the past; and Karasch’s message should be just one sentence--that the
announcement in the paper was a lie.

I sent for him at once, instructed him how to act, and despatched him
on the errand; only to be defeated again, however. Gatrina had refused
to see him.

There was only Nikolitch left, and even he failed me. He did not come
at the time he had appointed, and when I went to his rooms in search of
him, I heard that he had been sent away on military business and would
not return until night or the next morning.

So the whole day passed without anything being done to kill the lie
which was having such ominous results for me.

It was noon on the next day when I saw Nikolitch; and very anxious and
disturbed he looked.

“I have grave news for you, Bergwyn,” he said at once. “The officers
are going to move at once and a day or two, perhaps an hour or two,
will find the crisis here.”

“I want to see you about something else,” I said, eagerly.

“My news first,” he replied. “Before anything else, you must know it. I
fear that that condition of no violence will not be kept.”

Instantly my thoughts were for Gatrina and I chilled with fear for her.

“Speak plainly, Nikolitch.”

“I have come back at some risk to do so. I have only the worst to
report. We moderates have been outvoted.”

Like a flash Elma’s grim word, “Assassination” darted across my mind as
I waited for him to continue.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE SCENT OF PERIL.


“I got a scent of the trouble yesterday,” said Nikolitch after a pause,
long enough to try my patience severely; “and should have come to you
at once, but I was sent out of the city to Jagodina with part of the
regiment. I dared not write to you for fear the letter got into wrong
hands.”

“What did you hear, and how?”

“You know there have been many changes made in the regiments here;
and no one could understand the reason for them. But I believe I know
it now. Those officers who are against force have been gradually sent
out of the city and their places filled by men of the opposite views.
Yesterday an excuse was made that some manœuvres were to be held round
Jagodina; and by means of it nearly all of the no-violence men were
sent away--myself amongst them; while others have been moved in. You
can guess the object--a _coup d’etat_.”

“And Petrosch?”

“Was like a sphinx when I managed to see him yesterday. Denied the idea
of force, referred to the arrangement with you; but would say not a
word as to what was intended. He pleaded entire ignorance.”

“What will happen?”

“I cannot say. We discussed it all last night at Jagodina, and the
impression there is that some most drastic steps have been decided
secretly and that we were being got out of the way for them to be
carried out.”

“What kind of violence do you anticipate?”

“God knows,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands, almost despairingly.

“We must see Petrosch.”

“I dare not. I am supposed to be in Jagodina. I got leave of absence
because the chief is very friendly, but he said I must not come to
Belgrade. He meant I mustn’t let him know if I did. So I said I wished
to go to Alexinatz. But I felt I must get the news to you somehow; so I
came here secretly. I shall be broken if my presence is known.”

“Won’t you stay and see it through, now you are here?”

“I owe you no less, Bergwyn, let happen what will. I have got you into
it. But I should prefer not to go outside this house if we can help it.”

“I wanted you to do me a great service. And it is more important now
than ever, if what you think is true.”

“What is it?”

“To go to the Princess Gatrina.”

“I have thought of her. That’s largely why I came--after what you told
me about the hill business.”

“You think she would be in danger?”

“How can it be otherwise? But of course it depends on what is going to
happen. You must warn her.”

“That’s just it. I can’t get a word to her. I was trying all yesterday.
She won’t see me, wouldn’t read a letter I sent asking her to see me;
wouldn’t even let the man who helped us in the hill affair have a word
with her. I hoped you would be able to help me.”

He hesitated a moment. “Of course I will,” he said then. “The thing’s
too grave to let any personal considerations weigh with me. She must be
persuaded to leave the city--at least until the officers have carried
out their plan.”

“She won’t go.”

“She must, or the worst may happen to her. Some of these men will go to
any extreme.”

“Put it plainer, Nikolitch. You mean her life will be in danger?”

“I don’t like even to think of it in plain terms, Bergwyn. To tell you
the truth, I believe I’m horribly afraid and can’t think.”

“I’ll go to Petrosch myself at once, while you go to the Princess. I
think she will receive you. What I want you particularly to do with her
is persuade her that there is no foundation for this statement;” and I
put the newspaper cutting in his hand.

He read it and looked up. “Is it a time to think of this?” he asked.

“Yes; because when that is contradicted she may consent to see me and I
can add my influence to persuade her to seek safety in flight.”

“Would they let her go?” he asked.

“Get her consent and I’ll do the rest.”

“Send your man to my rooms for clothes. I mustn’t be seen in these;”
and he shewed me that under a long overcoat he was wearing his uniform.

I rang for Buller and gave him instructions, and then started to find
Colonel Petrosch. I had much difficulty, driving from place to place
and losing much time, to catch him after all at his house.

Having heard of my first call he was thus prepared for my visit; and
must have guessed my object, although he expressed surprise at seeing
me.

“I wish to see you very particularly, Colonel; you will have heard that
I called here a couple of hours ago; and I have been seeking you ever
since.”

“I am very sorry; but of course if you had sent me word beforehand I
would have waited in or come to you, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“I could not do that. I have only just heard the news which has brought
me to you.”

“Indeed. How?”

“I have many sources, as you will understand. Is it true that the
officers have resolved upon their line of action?”

“Yes. I told you that two days ago.”

“What is it?”

“I told you then I could not disclose it, Mr. Bergwyn. You will
remember that.”

“Has there been any alteration in their plans?”

He paused. “In a sense, no. No finally decisive step taken.”

“There have been some considerable changes in the disposition of the
regiments?”

“Oh, yes. We have had some manœuvres at Jagodina and have had to make
them as imposing as possible.”

“That is the only reason for the changes?”

“Not entirely. Some have been made in connection with the plan of the
officers.”

“A large number of officers have been brought to the capital. I know
that. Are these the men who favour a policy of force?”

He flinched from the question. “Is that your information?”

“Yes; just that.”

“To a certain extent you are right, Mr. Bergwyn,” he answered slowly.
“I had better tell you something. Since I saw you, a formal demand has
been made to the King to abdicate, backed by the statement ‘that a
refusal would be followed by the declaration of the army against him.’
At first he refused; but afterwards withdrew the peremptory refusal and
asked for time to consider the matter. A week was conceded and there
the matter was left.”

“Then nothing will be done for a week?”

“Nothing _would_ have been done; but His Majesty or the Government,
most probably the Queen, has broken faith. Of those who waited upon
him--there were five--three have been arrested and thrown into prison.
Naturally the army is embittered.”

“What will be done?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “For whatever happens now, the blame will
lie with the Court.”

“I suppose that’s about as hopeless news as you could give me.”

“It is not good,” he replied, very gravely.

“You are still in a position to keep the condition of no violence.”

“We have decided to release you from your undertaking so that we may
not even appear to be guilty of bad faith. The decision has just been
made; and I should have written you at once or seen you, to return you
this paper;” and he put my letter back into my hands.

Nothing that he could have said or done would have so deeply impressed
me as that.

“You told me there had been no change of plan.”

“There has been none--yet,” he answered. “The final decision has still
to be made.”

“I have heard your policy summed up in the one word--assassination.”

“Our policy has always been liable to misinterpretation; against that,
in times like these, we cannot guard.”

“I won’t disguise from you that you have alarmed me greatly.”

“Is there a man in the country at the present time who does not view
the future with alarm? The issues are too fateful for all classes,
Mr. Bergwyn. But if you are speaking in contemplation of any sort of
financial business, I would advise you strongly to hold your hand and
wait.”

“How long?”

“Until the new Government is established, the new King crowned and the
country once more settled.”

“The new King?” I asked quickly.

“The succession will revert to the Karageorgevics.”

“And Princess Gatrina?”

“It is very unfortunate for her and her friends that she still remains
in the city.” He spoke with impressive deliberation.

“It is largely on her account I have been influenced in what I have
done.”

“So I have gathered for myself, Mr. Bergwyn; and so I have thought,
despite the contradictory rumours which have reached me concerning you
both--and others.”

“Can you give me no assurance that at least she will be in no personal
danger?”

He paused a long time to think. “Personally I will do everything in
my power. You have met me so frankly that you deserve no less. You
may rely upon me to do my utmost; but although I shall of course have
considerable influence, I am but one of many.”

“She would be allowed to leave the city?”

“Her departure would be welcome if she would go at once.”

“And if she stays?”

“She may carry her life in her hands, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“But I could still depend upon your influence?”

“To the uttermost shred. I give you my honour.”

I rose to go then. “I need not assure you that I shall treat in
confidence what you have said, Colonel Petrosch.”

He shook his head. “It does not matter now, Mr. Bergwyn. I have told
you nothing--I could tell you nothing, of course--that may not be
openly repeated. It is too late for anything of that kind to signify
now. The army is too strong to be shaken from its purpose by anything
that could happen. You will see that yourself very soon. The die is
cast.”

This indifference to publicity amazed me as much as anything he had
said in the interview and confirmed the absorbingly gloomy impression
which he had created.

I drove back to my house feverishly anxious now to hear how Nikolitch
had fared with Gatrina. But he had not returned and I sat eating out my
heart with impatience at his delay. He was so long that I began to fear
he might have been arrested for having come to the city in defiance of
his orders, and I sent Buller at length to the Princess’s house for
news of him.

A line came back from him.

“She is away. I am waiting for her return.”

I scribbled a reply to this.

“I have had the worst confirmed. For God’s sake do all you can;” and
this I sent back to him by Buller.

The suspense of the time that followed was agony. My alarm for her took
a hundred crude and wild shapes as I thought of the peril that would
encircle her when the desperate schemes of the army were once put in
operation.

I was maddening myself with such thoughts when Buller brought me
Elma’s card. I sent a curt message that I would not see her. I felt I
could not trust myself in that desperate mood.

But he came back with a note.

“You must see me. I have terrible news affecting Gatrina’s safety.”

I went to her then. In such a cause I was ready to go anywhere and do
anything. She was more serious than I had seen her before, and spoke
without any of the affectations customary with her.

“There must be peace between us, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“What have you come for?”

“Gatrina is in danger and you must help to save her.”

“What is your news?”

“A revolution is imminent, and if Gatrina is in the city when it breaks
out, she will be involved. The King has been told he must abdicate, and
a conflict between him and the army is now certain. She must be got to
a place of safety.”

“Why do you come to me?”

“Because you can prevail with her.”

“On the contrary, you have made that impossible. You know how--by the
false tale you told before the Queen.”

“It can be contradicted. I will contradict it if you agree.”

“Agree to what?”

“To unite with us in saving her to take the Throne.”

“You mean to marry the Duke Barinski?”

“I mean, first, to save her life. This is no time to think of any
personal ends. She is necessary to the country.”

“She has no chance of succeeding to the Throne. I know that. I know
what is to be done.”

“You can help us if you will. Get her to trust herself to us instead of
to the Court, and we will be responsible for her safety.”

“How? Another case of Maglai?”

“You need not sneer. I did not mean that. She would be safe under the
protection of the Russian flag.”

“With you as her chief adviser and friend. I should not deem that
safety; nor would she.”

“You abandon her then to her fate?”

“I will not counsel her to play the part of cat’s paw for Russia.”

“Even to save her life?”

“Will you undo the mischief you have caused and let her know the truth?
Then I will act with you to this extent. If I can, I will prevail with
her to leave the country for a time and from a position of freedom,
decide whether to make this marriage or not.”

“She must not leave the country. She must be here when the moment of
crisis arrives, and the future occupant of the Throne has to be chosen.
Her absence then might be fatal to everything.”

“Go to her and tell her that all you said was untrue and why you said
it, and leave the decision to her.”

“You are still dreaming of the impossible. I have shewn her most of
your old letters to me.”

“Then you had better tell your Russian employers how you have succeeded
in wrecking their schemes.”

She paused in considerable embarrassment.

“You must have some other aim, however,” I continued. “You have
contradicted yourself. You said at first that I still had influence
with her: now that you have kept your word and broken her trust in me;
and yet that you need my help. You will not be surprised that I find
it difficult to believe you at all--except as a power for mischief and
wrong.”

“You do not seem to realise her peril.”

“And you do not explain your inconsistency.”

“I will make it all plain to her.”

“So that I may go to counsel her to marry another man. I will not.”

“Not even to save her life?”

“You said that before. I will find means to save her life, if it should
be really in danger.”

“What I have proposed is the only way.”

“You may think so. I will find another. I do not trust either you or
your employers. You can help me by undoing what you have done and
telling her the truth--by that means you can aid in saving her life.
But with your help or without, I will find the means.”

“You are very bitter against me.”

“I speak the truth and the truth may well have a bitter sound.”

“If you refuse me, the responsibility for what may occur will be yours.”

“Will you go to her and admit the falsehood?”

“If you agree to my terms. Not otherwise.”

“That was the answer I expected,” I said as I rose.

She made a gesture of impatient dissent. “You make things so difficult.
We both desire the same end: the Princess’s safety; and yet you will
not act with me to reach it.”

“You come to me, or you are sent to me, because it is thought I can now
be of some use as a decoy. I have no fancy for the part. I do not trust
you or those behind you.”

“You entirely misjudge my motives.”

“Very possibly, if they are genuine. You have taught me not to expect
that; and I have learnt the lesson. That’s all there is to it. And now,
I have no wish to say to you any more of the angry things I feel. Shall
we end this?”

“Will you consider what I have said and let me come to-morrow for an
answer?”

“No. You have my answer; and I have no wish to see you again.”

“How bitter you can be!” she cried, rising.

My only reply was to open the door for her to leave.

“Do you mean to render me desperate? You underestimate my power to
revenge myself. You will drive me to take a course which even I might
afterwards regret. I am not yet Gatrina’s enemy; but ...” a very angry
glance finished the sentence.

“We shall do better to end this,” I answered, curtly, meeting her look
as I held the door for her.

“You will be well advised for your own and her sake if I find you in a
different mood to-morrow;” and with this threat she went.

For her threats I cared little enough; and the only part of the
interview which made any impression was the confirmation she had
brought of the coming trouble.

I was thinking this round when Nikolitch returned.

“Well?” I asked eagerly.

He shook his head. “I have done no good,” he said.

My heart fell at the words. The last chance had failed, and I knew
by my pang of disappointment how much I had built upon my friend’s
mission.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A PLAN OF DEFENCE.


It was some time before I could even bring myself to ask Nikolitch for
details of his visit to Gatrina.

“You saw the Princess?” I asked at length.

“I would not come away without. She had been at the Palace, I think.
She received me graciously at first--she does all things prettily--and
listened while I warned her that grave troubles were coming. Then
something I said suggested to her that I had come from you; and her
manner changed suddenly.”

“It would, I suppose,” I interjected, bitterly.

“She put the question point blank, and I admitted it, of course. Then
she refused to hear any more. I said that you were very anxious to
see her; and she got up and was for dismissing me on the spot. But I
hung on and managed to get out the contradiction of the engagement,
as she was hurrying away. At the door she turned, her face very pale,
her manner and tone cold as ice. ‘Under the circumstances, Captain
Nikolitch, your presence is an insult,’ she said. And never in my life
have I felt the lash of a woman’s tongue more keenly. I suppose she was
mad you had told me anything of how matters stood with you. I felt like
a whipped cur as I stumbled out of the room.”

“Well, it’s just a devil of a mess, that’s all, and we’ll have to find
some way of helping her against her will.”

I told him of the result of my visit to Petrosch and of the
confirmation of the news from Elma. His view of the outlook was even
darker than my own; and when I let drop a hint of the suggestion which
Elma had made, he was disposed to freeze to it as the best and readiest
solution of the difficulty.

But I shook my head. “The Princess would never trust herself to them,”
I said. “I know her too well to think that for a moment.”

“She would be safe. Other things would settle themselves afterwards.
The hours of peril will be few, whatever happens; and when they are
once passed, the itch for violence will be appeased.”

“No,” I said again. “I say no, emphatically no. If she believed the
danger were really so acute, she would go to the Queen and stand or
fall with her. She would regard it as cowardly to think of herself
at such a time; and nothing would induce her to set foot inside the
Russian Minister’s house merely to save herself. It would but drive her
into greater peril that if she remained in her own. It is there she
must be protected. Would God I could but learn when the devilment is to
be done?”

“I think I could learn that. Not here, of course, where if I were
recognised I should be clapped straight away under arrest; but at
Jagodina. They will know there.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake get back to Jagodina at once and send me word.
I will do the rest. I begin to see a way at last--if she will but stay
in her own house.”

“What is it?” he asked eagerly.

“No, no. Don’t stay another minute in the city. Get to your regiment
and send me the news I want. Just the time; that’s all; that’s all. It
may not be safe to send more;” and seizing a time table I found there
was a train he could catch at once, and I hurried him off.

“My uniform,” he said. “I’m in mufti.”

“Leave it. It may be useful.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, anxiously.

“If I don’t tell you, you can’t be compromised. Do as I ask; that’s
all. And for Heaven’s sake be off at once.”

I infected him with a degree of my own energy and bundled him off to
the depot, and sent Buller with him with instructions to get him a
special train if he missed the regular one.

Then I gave word that the instant Karasch arrived he was to be shewn
to me; it was close to the hour at which he was accustomed to come for
instructions; and having done that I set to work to think out my plan
as I ate a hasty dinner.

The plan was a very simple one--to raise immediately a band of men
numerous enough to protect Gatrina’s house in case of emergency, and to
find some place close to it where they could remain in readiness under
Karasch’s leadership.

The idea took a more daring form at one time, and I was much tempted
to adopt it. It was to have the men in the uniform of one of the
regiments and to act the part of guarding the house, as if at the
army’s command; but the risk which the men would run if the thing were
discovered was too great. I might not be able to protect them even with
Petrosch’s influence; and I had, therefore, to abandon the notion. But
from it came another idea which I saw at once was practicable.

“There is work for you at last, Karasch,” I said to him as soon as he
arrived; “difficult, and perhaps dangerous; and I am going to trust to
you.”

“I will do my best, Excellency, whatever it be,” he answered, with his
customary directness.

“Ugly things are going to occur in the city; a revolution accompanied
probably with violence is on the eve of taking place; and no one can
say for certain what will or will not happen. But it is very probable
that the Princess--Mademoiselle, you know--will be exposed to great
danger, and I wish you to help me in protecting her. You will do this?”

“With my life, Excellency. Of course you have a plan.”

“Yes. I mean you to get together a strong band of resolute men to be
instantly available to form a guard round her house. They must be men
on whom we can depend; and we will pay them liberally. How many can you
get?”

“I could get a thousand to take your money and promise; and I might
find fifty or less who might keep their promises; and, perhaps, five or
six who would be absolutely reliable. It would depend.”

“On what?”

“On whom Mademoiselle had to be defended against. If against the mob
it would be easy, but not against soldiers, Excellency.”

“It will probably be against the soldiery.”

He shook his head doubtingly. “It would be very difficult,” he said.

“It has to be done, Karasch,” I declared firmly. “The Princess’s life
may depend upon it.”

“Where twenty men would face the sticks and stones of a mob, scarce
one of them would stand before the bayonets or bullets of the troops,
Excellency. Should we be inside the house?”

“No, outside.”

“Ah,” he exclaimed with another very grave shake of the head.

“_You_ would do it?”

“I am different; but I would not do it for money. I have been in
similar troubles before; and for those who resist the soldiers at such
times, there are many roads to death and all short and pretty certain.
Men know this, Excellency. Belgrade is not like the hills in the
Gravenje district. I might count on five or six, as I say; but what are
they against the troops in the city?”

I thought a moment. “Could you trust them absolutely?” I asked.

“Yes; as you may trust me. But, I beg your Excellency’s pardon, why
cannot the Princess remove to a place of safety?”

“She will not, for reasons I cannot explain to you. For one thing she
does not know of her danger, and will not believe in it.”

“Mademoiselle has a strong will, we know,” he said, with a shrug of his
broad shoulders.

“She has, therefore, to be saved despite herself. Stay, I have it,” I
exclaimed as a thought struck me. “You say these five or six men are
to be relied upon. Could you procure half a dozen uniforms for them to
wear?”

“I could get half a hundred, but----”

“This is my plan then. Get the other men, fifty or a hundred of
them--as many as you can--to be available if the only trouble comes
from the mob. The six we will make up as soldiers, and at the worst we
will force our way with them into the house and bring off the Princess
as though she were our prisoner.”

He chewed the notion for a moment and then his grim face relaxed into
one of his rare smiles. “It is good,” he said; and we set to work and
threshed out the plan in as much detail as practicable at that stage.

I decided that the half dozen men who with Karasch and myself were to
take the risk of making the pretended arrest of Gatrina, should wear
the uniform of soldiers and over that loose civilian’s clothes which
could be easily slipped off in case of need. The men would in this way
be available for both parts of the work before us; as civilians to
resist the mob, or as soldiers to mislead the regular troops.

I based my plans on the calculation that in making any attempt on
Gatrina’s house the troops were not likely to be in any considerable
force. The movement would be more in the nature of an arrest; and if
we could manage to get into the house before the soldiers sent to make
the arrest, they would be likely to conclude, if they saw Gatrina in
our hands, that in the confusion some mistake had been made in doubling
the parties told off for the purpose.

I should be in command and should wear the uniform which Nikolitch had
left behind him; and in the event of any complication arising, I should
have to trust to my wits to explain it away.

My intention was to march with Gatrina straight to the house of the
United States representative, where, of course, she would be safe. I
knew him already for a man on whom I could rely implicitly.

Karasch went off to find the men and was to return at midnight to
report progress; and I was to go out into the neighbourhood of
Gatrina’s house to look for a place in which they could be placed.
I was getting ready when my eye fell upon Nikolitch’s uniform and I
tried it on. It was anything but comfortable after the freedom of
civilian’s dress; and as I was much the broader man of the two, it was
an uncommonly bad fit.

But I had to get used to it; so I resolved on a dress rehearsal of the
part, and throwing on a long overcoat, I put a revolver in my pocket
and set out on my quest, with Chris in close attendance at my heels.

The night was fine but moonless; and as the streets of Belgrade were
very badly lighted, there was not much chance of my being recognised.
The restaurants and supper houses were busy enough, and the flare of
their lights streamed across the streets here and there; but they were
easy to avoid; and there were none of them in the neighbourhood of
Gatrina’s house.

As it was of course necessary that I should make myself as familiar
with the entrances to the house as possible, I had a good look at it,
being careful to keep well in shadow.

A massive stone house, it stood by itself at a corner and was almost
surrounded by a high wall. The main door let out on to a broad
thoroughfare; a strong massive door with a deep portico. In the wall
at the side there was a smaller doorway--the servants’ entrance, I
concluded; and this, also, was very heavily and strongly fashioned. All
the lower windows were heavily barred, a custom I had observed to be
general in the large houses in the city.

It was altogether a house capable of offering stout resistance to any
attack; and I saw in a moment that if I could once get inside, with
a few resolute men, it would be possible to hold it for a long time
against either mob or troops; and I concluded that, in common with many
others in the city, it had been strengthened in view of the turbulent
outbreaks which had been frequent enough in Belgrade.

The strength of the house reassured me somewhat until I found a weak
spot. Some fifty yards along the smaller street were the stables; and
I remembered that when I had been in the house on the previous day
waiting in my vain attempt to see Gatrina, I had noticed a newly made
door at the end of the garden, just at the point where, as I could now
see, it would lead to the stables; while from the room where I had
been placed, a French window quite unprotected led down a flight of
steps to the garden path.

That was a weak spot indeed. But if it would render the house open to
attack, it would also provide the means by which I could gain access if
the need arose.

I was weighing all this in my mind most earnestly as I stood opposite
the entrance to the stable, when Chris moved and growled. I silenced
him, laying my hand on his head, and drew back with him into the deep
shadow of a tree which stood in front of the portico of a house, and
listened.

He never warned me without cause; and soon I caught the sound of
approaching footsteps. I had no wish to be seen, so I slipped into the
portico and pressed close against the wall, while I kept watch on the
newcomer. He came along at a quick pace until he reached the stable,
when he paused.

My first idea was that he was a servant who had overstayed his hours
of leave and was puzzling how to get into the house without attracting
notice.

But I was wrong. Presently he came out into the roadway and stared at
the upper windows of the house. Then he went round to the front and
again he paused and stared up at the windows there; and apparently not
seeing what he sought--for the whole house was now in darkness--he
scratched his head as if in perplexity, and came sauntering back toward
the stables.

He was very slow in his movements, and his slowness irritated me.
Presently a light shewed for an instant in one of the top windows at
the back, and was almost instantly extinguished. This was repeated
twice, at short intervals; and I heard the window raised very
cautiously.

It was evidently the signal for which the man in the street had been
waiting, for he whistled, just two notes softly, shewed himself in the
roadway and then stepped back in the shadow of the stables and waited.

A vulgar assignation, I thought then, not without disgust; and I wished
that he and his sweetheart would be quick over their love-making. It
was well past eleven. At midnight I had to be back to receive Karasch’s
report; and yet could not venture to be seen.

But it was no sweethearting. After some minutes, a small door in the
large stable gate was opened and a man looked out. I could see all
that passed by the light of a lamp over the gates. The two whispered
together a moment; and then the man from the house came out, turned the
key in the lock, and put it in his pocket.

They both crossed the road toward where I stood, and I pressed yet
closer against the wall and kept my hand on Chris’s head lest by a
sound he should betray our presence. They did not enter the portico,
but stood in the shadow of the tree where I had first concealed myself.

“This will do,” I heard one of them say; and then strain my ears as I
would I could not catch any other than isolated words. But they were
enough to set me on fire. “Army,” “Arrest,” “Three hours,” “Yes, two
o’clock--” this was louder and in an impatient tone. After that there
was a chink of money passing; and then silence. It lasted so long that,
unable to contain myself, I peered out cautiously and looked at them.

The man who had come from the house was counting a quantity of paper
money, and trying to read the value of each bill by the flicker of the
lamp across the road. It was a tedious business; and his companion
whispered something to him and they both walked away along the street.

My first inclination was to follow them at once and force an
explanation; but I checked the impulse. I resolved to wait for the
return of the servant. He was sure to come back, if I read the thing
aright. I could deal with him alone much more satisfactorily.

I took Chris across to the stable gates and making him understand
that he was on guard and must let no one pass in, I returned to my
hiding-place.

The minutes were leaden as I stood waiting. The man was so long away
that I began to fear I had blundered and to regret I had not acted on
the impulse to follow the two.

But he came at length hurrying from the opposite direction; and he
glanced up at the house windows as he passed, with a gesture of
uneasiness. When he reached the stable gates, Chris received him with
a low growl, and he started back in some dismay at the most unexpected
interruption.

He was trying to pacify the dog with a little coaxing when I crossed to
him and, assuming a tone of authority, asked, at a venture; “You have
seen the sergeant? Why have you been so long?”

He was obviously in much perplexity and some fear, and glanced from
Chris to me. The good dog looked formidable enough to have frightened a
braver man.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I threw back my long coat and shewed my uniform.

“The plan is changed. You are to come with me. We can’t trust you out
of sight again.”

He glanced round as if meditating flight.

“The dog will pull you down if you move,” I said, sternly.

“I must get in,” he murmured. “I shall keep my word.”

“Did you hear what I ordered you?” I rapped back with an oath. “Come,”
and I linked my arm in his to drag him away. He resisted at first; but
at a word from me Chris shewed his fangs and snarled so angrily that no
resistance was left in him. I let go his arm then. “A false step or a
single word, and the dog’s fangs will close on your throat,” I muttered
fiercely.

He came then, keeping pace anxiously with my quick stride and glancing
ever and again over his shoulder at Chris who stalked behind him like a
black shadow.

I got him to my house without trouble; for the streets were now all but
deserted, and I chose a way which avoided the main roads.

I led him into my study, taking Chris with me, and then turned a lamp
full on his face. Then I drew my revolver and held it in his full view
as I considered how best to question him, so as to get the truth out
of him.

It was a vital matter, and they were anxious moments; for upon his
answers Gatrina’s life might depend.

He found them anxious, too. I could see that by his pallor, the nervous
twitchings of hands and features, the sweat that stood on his swarthy
forehead, and the wild look on his fear-filled eyes.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE NIGHT OF TERROR.


The fear which my prisoner displayed led me to prolong the interval
before I questioned him. It was essential for my purpose that he should
be thoroughly frightened; and the suspense was enough to try much
stouter nerves than his. I let him have some two or three minutes,
therefore, so that his fears should have full scope; and just as my
first question was on my lips, a happy thought occurred to me. I saw
that I could make valuable use of the Russian reputation for doing ugly
things.

He was more likely to fear the Russians than any other party concerned;
and if I could make him believe he had now fallen into their hands, he
would be far more likely to answer my questions than if I played the
more difficult part of an army officer, believing him false to the army.

“Stand over there,” I cried, sternly and suddenly in Russian, pointing
to the wall; and the start he gave at hearing the unwelcome language,
proved to me that I was right. He moved to where I pointed, his eyes on
me all the time. “Attempt to move and the dog will be on you,” I added,
as brutally and coarsely as I could.

Then I rang the bell, and when Buller came I said in Russian; “Tell
General Minzkoff I have the prisoner and am questioning him.” But
Buller didn’t understand Russian and stood staring at me in hesitation
what to do; so to give the thing colour, I jumped up, swore vigorously,
and, as if in a paroxysm of rage, thrust him violently out of the room,
pretending to kick him, as I shouted: “Do as I say at once.”

I flung myself back in my seat only to jump up again and, as though
I had forgotten something rushed out of the room after Buller. I
explained matters, and told him to find a servant who could speak
Russian and send him to me to say that “I was to see General Minzkoff
with my report as soon as possible.”

This particular Russian officer had just the reputation for violence
that was certain to impress the spy; and the more bullying and brutal
I could make my manner, the more characteristic would it be of the
general’s agents.

“You speak my language?” I jerked out in Russian.

“I understand it a little,” he answered with difficulty.

“Then we’ll use your own cursed tongue,” I said in Serb. “I have no
time to waste over you, so if you don’t answer plainly I’ll find means
to make you. How much money did that soldier give you just now?”

He started at finding I knew this and looked about for a lie. “Money? I
don’t understand your Excellency.”

“It’s in that pocket.” I pointed to where I had seen him place it.
“Take it out, you lying dog. Quick,” I thundered, as he still
hesitated. “I know everything.”

Slowly, for it cost him a pang to part with it, he drew out the bundle
of bills. “It is my own,” he faltered.

“The gold, too. Quick.”

Again he trembled, but dared not refuse. I had now impressed upon him
that I knew his secrets.

“Put it there,” I said, pointing to a chair. “Now. I’ll test your power
of speaking the truth. What was that money paid for?”

He stared at me in a sweat of fear, trying to moisten his parched lips
with a tongue as dry as leather, wishing to lie but yet afraid; and in
his fright unable to coin a plausible tale.

“It was money--owing to me,” he stammered.

I paused a moment to let him hope the lie had imposed upon me; and then
pointed to the bell. “If that bell is rung it will bring my men here
with the means you may have heard we use to make prisoners speak the
truth. Go and ring it now--or tell me the truth of your own accord.”

It was a touch of refined cruelty eloquent of Russian methods to make
him summon his own torturers; and it did much to carry conviction now.

“I don’t wish to deceive your Excellency,” he murmured.

“Is that why you want me to believe that when a man owes you money he
comes in the dead of night to pay it after waiting for your signals
from the house--the light three times flashed. You lying cur. Ring that
bell--I have no more time to waste.”

“You won’t torture me?” he cried, in anguish.

“Ring that bell,” I thundered. “It pleases me for you yourself to call
your torturers;” and I laughed, as if the grim joke were really to my
taste.

Down he went on his knees. “Not the torture, Excellency. Not the
torture. For God’s sake, not that.”

“You’ve had a taste of it before, eh?” I said, with another grin,
feeling an awful beast as I did it. “You can choose--the torture or the
truth of your own will.”

“My God!” he exclaimed, covering his white face and writhing; and
then the truth came slowly and with labour, as he thought how little
he dared to tell and yet save his skin. “It was for my mistress’s
sake--the Princess. We were all afraid in the house because we are so
weak. I had arranged to let some soldiers in to protect us all.”

“You must do better than that, dog. Try again,” I sneered, coarsely.
“Men don’t pay you to come and protect you. You’ll have to lie better
than that to convince me.” Then I changed the sneer to a tone of anger.
“I’ll have no more of this; the truth, or--” and I laid my hand on the
bell.

At that moment the man Buller had sent with the message in Russian came
in and delivered it.

“Very good,” I said to him; and added; “Tell black Ivan and Loris to
come the instant I ring. I find I shall need them. They know what to
bring with them.”

The bluff worked. I saw that the instant the servant left the room.

“I’ll give you one minute; no more,” I declared.

“I’ll tell your Excellency all I know,” he stammered at once. “I was
paid to let the soldiers into the house at two o’clock in the morning.”

“For what purpose?”

“I don’t know that.”

“For what purpose?” I repeated sternly.

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

At that I appeared to fly into a passion. I seized the revolver and
going up to him clapped it to his head.

“Answer me, or I’ll scatter your brains here on the floor.”

He shrank and groaned as he felt the cold steel on his forehead.

“To arrest the Princess, Excellency. Oh, my God, my God,” he cried and
burst into tears.

I went back to my seat. “You are a faithful servant to your mistress.
Do you know what’s going to happen to-night--the night you’ve chosen
for this infamy?”

“N--no. Yes,” he changed his words almost eagerly as he caught my eye.

“Give it words then.”

“They told me it was for her safety, Excellency. They did, they did, I
swear they did, on my soul. When the King and Queen and the others are
taken from the Palace, the Princess would be in danger in her house,
and they mean to put her in a place of safety.”

This was news, indeed; and in my consternation at hearing it, this
coward and his treachery became of little importance. I did not doubt
he was speaking the truth about that, whatever his own motives may have
been for his act. And then a plan occurred to me.

“How many men were to carry out the arrest?”

“I don’t know--only a few; four or five at most, we have no means of
resisting them in the house.”

“You are to let them in by the stable door?”

“Yes, Excellency, at two o’clock. They could force their way in even
without my help.”

I paid no heed to his attempt at exculpation. “What is your name? The
name they know you by?”

“Michel.”

“How many men servants are in the house?”

“Two besides myself. Two are away, Excellency.”

“Anyone sleeping in the stables?”

“No one, Excellency.”

“Any of the others know of your plan?”

“No, Excellency.”

“You have the key of that stable door. Give it to me.”

He handed it over with a deep sigh.

“You have saved your skin,” I said curtly; “but you must remain here.
You will be safe, if you make no effort to resist. If you do that, I
shall leave orders that you are to be shot.” I said this much as though
it were my daily custom to catch men and murder them; and the very tone
I used added to his fears.

I left him a minute in the care of Chris; and as Karasch had arrived I
told him to have the man bound and locked up in one of the many vaults
in the basement of the house.

I was glad to be relieved of his presence, and then set to work to
carry out the scheme which his story had suggested. When Karasch came
back I told him what I had learnt and asked him how he had fared.

“Except the handful of men on whom I knew I could trust, I have done
little,” he said.

“They may be enough for my altered plans. Can you get them to-night,
and above all can you get uniforms for them?”

“I fear not, Excellency. It is past midnight.”

“Get the men then. I’ll find uniforms for them.”

“My plan is to go to the Princess’s house at once; to wait for the men
who are coming to arrest her; make them prisoners and then play their
part. They will be able to provide us with the costumes,” I added,
smiling grimly.

“It is very dangerous,” was his comment.

“You mean for them? Yes, it will be.”

“I mean for you, and all of us.”

“If anyone is afraid, let him stay away. I can go alone. It is no work
for children, of course,” I exclaimed, impetuously.

“Have I deserved that from your Excellency?”

“No, Karasch; I know you haven’t. I am excited.”

“Tell me what has to be done; and I will do it,” he said, simply;
and then we discussed very hurriedly the plan and completed the
preparations which had to be made.

I told him to meet me near the Princess’s house with as many of the
men as he could get together, and to bring with him a few lengths of
stout cord for binding the soldiers we hoped to capture. That made
clear I packed him off to hunt up his men.

It was a desperate step I had resolved to take, and the penalty of
failure would probably be serious. I realised that to the full; but on
the other hand, I could see no other means of gaining my end.

If Gatrina would have listened to me, the course would have been simple
enough. I could have given her warning of her danger and have removed
her to a place of safety. But she would not let me approach her nor
admit there was anything perilous to her in the situation. Thus, if
I was to save her it must be done against her knowledge and almost
against her will.

I left my house about half an hour after midnight, having appointed
with Karasch to be at the Princess’s by half past one, or as near to
that hour as he could reach there. In no event was he to be later than
a quarter to two, even if he had to come alone.

Having ample time, I resolved to make a detour and see if any movements
were going on in the neighbourhood of the Palace. With Chris close at
my heels I walked at a rapid pace, choosing the most unfrequented ways
I could find.

The whole city appeared sunk in the slumber of unsuspecting security.
Scarcely a light glimmered in any one of the houses. The streets were
deserted, and the only sounds to disturb the quietude were those of my
own footsteps. If the army were really going to move that night, they
must have kept their intentions entirely secret from all who were not
concerned in their work.

One o’clock was chimed as I came in view of the Palace; and save for
the sentries pacing their rounds with mechanical steps, not a soul was
to be seen. The Palace itself was wrapped in comparative darkness, the
inmates secure in their belief in the fidelity and watchfulness of
their guards.

There was absolutely nothing to suggest that a violent outbreak was
on the very eve of consummation; and that a deed of horror was in the
making, the shame of which would before morning spread to the uttermost
confines of the civilised world, to set men seeking its parallel in the
darkest epochs of history.

I turned from the Palace, indeed, hoping and more than half convinced
that the spy had been misled, and that if the army really nurtured
thoughts of force, their plans were not yet matured. I was intensely
relieved by this apparent dissipation of my gloomy fears and at the
same time profoundly perplexed as to my own course.

If I forced my way in the dead of night into Gatrina’s house and
nothing occurred to justify my act, discovery would overwhelm me with
both confusion and shame. In her eyes I should not only look like a
rash, intermeddling fool, but my conduct would be open to a thousand
misinterpretations, all ominous and all ruinous to my hopes.

But I was not long to be a prey to these distracting doubts. On
leaving the Palace I hurried toward one of the barracks; and then, all
suddenly, on turning the corner of one of the main streets, I heard
the measured tramp of many feet; and had just time to conceal myself
in the gateway of a house, when a large body of troops passed me,
marching in dead silence.

They numbered some hundreds, marching straight on the Palace; and
I knew then, indeed, that trouble was abroad and that my worst
forebodings were to be realised.

The night of terror for Belgrade had come; and when I saw the strength
of the force and thought of Gatrina, my heart sank within me at the
paltry effort I was about to make to secure her safety. My plan seemed
so puny, so less than weak, so hopeless in the face of this overawing
display of force, that I could have gnashed my teeth in despair.

I gazed after the troops, when they had passed, like a fool bereft of
his wits by fear, until a sound broke and roused me from my lethargy.

The sound was that of gunshots in the direction of the Palace. I
guessed that the stern band had met with some opposition from the
guard, and that the deadly work on which they were bent had already
commenced. They had staked their lives on the issue; and even thus
early, some had paid the forfeit.

It was just the spur my sluggish wits needed and I slipped from my
hiding-place and ran at utmost speed in the direction of Gatrina’s
house. It was nearly a quarter to two when I reached it, to find with
intense satisfaction that all was still quiet there and that Karasch
had arrived and was awaiting me with four companions.

Taking the utmost precaution to make sure we were unobserved, I
unlocked the little door in the stable gates and we entered. Locking
it behind me, and leaving the men at the end near the stable under the
shadow of some trees, Karasch and I stole up the garden to the house,
and found the unlocked door by which the spy had left.

The time was so short before we were to look for the coming of the
soldiers that not a moment was to be lost in finding a place where
we could carry out the plan of capture. Karasch, most thoughtfully,
had brought a lantern with him, and stealing noiselessly through the
passages, we explored the whole of the underpart of the house; and I
decided upon two large cellars and explained to him hurriedly how to
act.

We would let the men in two at a time, Karasch guiding one, I the
other; and lead them each to a different cellar, where we would
overpower and bind them. All would be in darkness on the plea that
suspicion had been aroused in the house and any light would be
dangerous; and as each man entered the cellar he would be seized.

He fetched the men and by the light of the lantern I had a good look
at each. They were a sturdy, resolute lot; and when we explained the
work to be done, they seemed to enter into it with willingness and
determination.

The traps were in readiness before the hour struck, and Karasch and I
went out again to the stable gate to wait for the soldiers.

We stood in deep shadow and I then told him what I had seen in the
streets and of the firing I had heard at the Palace.

“The city will soon wake,” he muttered. “And if the people side with
the troops, as I believe they will, we shall soon have the mob here.”

“It will at least convince the Princess of the need to fly.” I sought
hard to persuade myself of this; for my chief fear was that Gatrina
herself would yet prove the greatest difficulty.

We stood in silence for many minutes and now and again the sound of
hurrying footsteps without told us that the news of the doings at the
Palace was spreading and that the people were scurrying to learn what
was going forward.

“They are late,” muttered Karasch, impatiently, more than once; and
then: “They are coming,” he declared, as his quick ear caught the sound
of slower footsteps before I heard anything.

I soon heard them, however. They halted outside the gates; and someone
knocked. I opened the little door a couple of inches and peered through.

There were six of them only.

“Is that you, Michel?” came a whisper.

“Hsh. Yes. How many are there of you?”

“Six.”

“There is danger. I am suspected. You must enter two at a time. I
daren’t let you all pass together through the garden. Cautiously, my
friend, cautiously,” I said, as someone tried to force the door.

A consultation was held and the man who had spoken to me explained to
the rest what I had said. Some difficulty was raised by one of the
soldiers; but I got my way.

Two men slipped through the door as I held it; and the instant the
second was through, I locked it behind him.

“Follow us,” I said, not giving either of them time to see my face; and
we led them to the house. “Give me your hand,” I told the man with me.
“We daren’t have a light, and the place is pitch dark.”

He suspected nothing and I led him into the cellar, clapping my hand on
his mouth as he entered, while the two men in waiting seized him and in
less than a minute he lay bound and gagged. The other had been dealt
with in the same way.

Karasch and I went back to the stables; but the time occupied, swiftly
as we had acted, had roused some kind of suspicion; and when I opened
the little door, one of the men thrust the butt of his musket in the
way and despite my strenuous efforts, before I could close it all four
had forced themselves through.

“We’ll go in together, my man,” said one of them, linking his arm in
mine and holding me firmly. Another man did the same to Karasch.

It spelt crisis; and for a moment or two I breathed hard. My fingers
closed round my revolver, and his life hung by a much thinner thread
than he dreamt.

I stood fighting with the impulse and thus the chance passed.

“See if he’s armed,” cried the soldier, and his companion plunged a
hand into my pocket and wrenched my weapon roughly from me. Karasch was
served in the same way; and from the confidence of success we were thus
suddenly brought face to face with the threat of disastrous failure.




CHAPTER XXV.

IN GATRINA’S HOUSE.


In the moment of crisis Karasch took his cue from me and neither
resisted nor protested against the soldiers’ conduct. I knew, however,
that he would watch me closely and be prepared to help the moment I had
decided what to do.

“I don’t know why you’ve done this,” I said to the man who held me
and had given the orders. “I kept faith with you and you arrest me in
return for it.” I was on fire with anxiety, but I spoke coolly.

“We can do without you now; and mean to see you give no trouble,” was
the answer.

“Very well; but if you cross the garden in a body like this, there’ll
be no call for me to give it you; you’ll find it for yourself. You’ll
be seen; the alarm will be given, and you may look out for resistance.”

“Who is there to resist, fool-head? There are only three men in the
house, and we’ve got two of you here,” he growled with a chuckle at his
own cunning. “You come with us to the house; that’s all you’ve got to
do; and come quietly, or maybe you won’t reach it. This is the army’s
night, and we’re not in a mood to be soft to those who resist us.”

With that we moved on along the garden and I was in a fever of
apprehension lest we should be seen by someone in the house. But the
inmates were apparently fast asleep, and we reached the entrance
without being observed.

This increased my captors’ suspicions.

“I thought your caution was overdone, friend spy,” he said.

“Then you’re a fool,” I answered, bluntly. “There’s a dog about and if
he scents you, he’ll soon let everyone know. You’d better let me keep
him quiet.” I had told Chris to stay, and knew he would remain till I
called him.

We had entered the house then and stood in the broad, stone-flagged
passage; and I spoke loud enough to warn our men in the cellars beyond.
I and the two men holding me were in advance and Karasch and the others
close behind.

“You hold your tongue. I’m in command here,” said the soldier in a
bullying tone.

“You’ve made prisoners of us; so you must do as you will. But I won’t
stand this treatment.”

“Where are my two men?”

“I left them close here. I suppose they’ve gone on into the house.”

“It’s as dark as hell,” growled the fellow. “Can you see anything,
Andreas?” he asked his companion.

“Nothing but the dark,” was the answer with an oath.

“You can get a light in the room first door to the right,” I said. This
was where I had left Chris, and if he went to it I knew the dog would
put him out of the reckoning. But he smelt a trick and would not.

“No, thank you, Mr. Spy. Where we go, you come too. I can’t make out
where the devil the others are. What does it mean?” and he called the
men by name.

“Hadn’t you better ring the alarm bell, while you’re about it?” I
sneered. “You’ll rouse everyone more quickly.”

“Curse the dark. Lead to where I can get a light,” he muttered. “No
tricks, mind, or you’ll regret it.”

His grip tightened on my arm and we moved forward abreast. But the door
was too narrow to admit us all at once and he entered the room first.

“Seize him, Chris,” I said in English; and out of the gloom the huge
black form sprang at him with a fierce growl. In his consternation the
soldier loosed his hold of me to battle with the dog, and in a moment
my hand was on his companion’s throat, while I called to the men in
the cellars to go to the help of Karasch who was now fighting and
struggling with his two guards.

We were six to three, for Chris kept the leader busy; and the desperate
struggle in the darkness was soon over. The soldiers fought gamely
enough; but they had no chance against such odds. We overpowered them,
but it was not until some hard blows had been given and taken on both
sides.

I was most afraid for the man whom Chris had attacked; but when I went
to him was relieved to find that no serious harm had been done. He was
terribly frightened; as well might be, for Chris was an antagonist
few men would care to fight. But having got him down the good dog
had not mauled him. The soldier lay flat on the ground, with Chris
standing guard over him and growling fiercely whenever the man made the
slightest movement.

“Call this brute off for God’s sake,” he said, in a frightened voice as
I approached, lantern in hand. I was glad to hear him speak.

“It serves you right for the trick you played me,” I answered. “Are you
hurt?” and I called Chris away.

“I thought he’d kill me.”

“Wouldn’t have been much loss if he had,” said I, as he sat up and
began to feel himself all over.

“I’d like to shoot the brute. What does this all mean?”

“That you’re my prisoner instead of my being yours. If you have any
weapons put ’em out--or I’ll let the dog find them.”

He glanced round fearsomely at Chris, who snarled.

“I have none.”

“Then we’ll tie you up like the rest of your men,” I answered; and
tied up he was. “I shall leave you here,” I told him. “The dog will be
on watch if you try any tricks; and you know whether you want another
round with him.”

Our victory was complete; and it remained to see how we should use it.
Karasch and the others set to work to take the soldiers’ uniforms and
put them on, while I tried to think what step to take next. I was in
possession of the house; but it seemed as if the real difficulties of
the business were only at the beginning.

The noise made during the struggle was so great that I knew the
household must have been roused, and while the men were getting into
the soldiers’ uniforms, I listened with considerable anxiety for
someone to come down to us. No one came, however; and I concluded
that those who had been aroused had also been so frightened that they
preferred to stop where they were.

The difficulty of the position was increased by my reluctance to see
Gatrina or be seen by her, if that could be in any way prevented. My
plan was to play his burlesque of arresting her, and not to shew my
hand until she was housed safely in the care of the American Minister.
To do that I intended one of the four men whom Karasch had brought to
act the part of leader; and I trusted that in the confusion and alarm
of the arrest, both Karasch and I might manage to pass unnoticed.

I was revolving all this in my thoughts when I heard a movement above
stairs, and presently a man’s voice called:

“Is that you, Michel? What’s the matter?”

“Come down,” I called in response; but my voice startled him.

“Who are you?”

“Michel wants you. There is trouble. Come down;” but he would not.
Instead of coming he went away; and I heard the low murmur of voices as
he spoke with someone else.

Lights shewed then, and I heard people moving about. But I did not want
the house to be lighted up, for fear of its attracting too much notice
outside; and I therefore called to my men to make haste with their
dressing.

When they came I led the way upstairs to find the servants huddled
together looking very scared; the two men in front of them armed. At
the sight of so many of us in uniform they uttered cries of surprise
and alarm.

“Put those guns down,” I said, in a tone of command. “We are too strong
for you to resist; and if you make any attempt, it will only lead to
trouble. Do as I say, and no harm will come to you.”

The two men hesitated. “What do you want?” asked one of them.

“Cover them,” I said, stepping to one side, and up went my men’s guns
to their shoulders.

One of the women screamed and they all huddled back, while the men laid
their weapons on the ground with discreet speed. At a sign from me the
muskets were lowered.

“Put out most of those lights,” I said next; and the order was obeyed
with a celerity that spoke volumes for the impression we had created.
“Where is your mistress, the Princess Gatrina?”

“In her rooms, sir,” said one of the women servants.

“Tell her to dress at once. She is to come with us. Impress upon her
that only her safety is being considered. Strange things are doing in
the city, and she cannot remain here. She must be ready to go with us
in five minutes.”

The girl sped away up the broad stairs and I turned to Karasch to tell
him my plan.

“The Princess will probably demand to see us; and as neither you nor I
can go to her without being recognised, two of these must go. Pick them
out.”

He chose two, and I told them what to say. That we had been selected to
protect the Princess and take her to a place where she would be safe
until the trouble in the city had passed.

The maid came back and her message was pretty much what I had
anticipated.

“Her highness will see you in a minute, sir. She wishes to know from
whom you come; and declares she will not leave the house.”

“Our orders are peremptory. In five minutes she must go with us,” I
replied, and she carried the message.

While we waited for the reply I went into the room where I had once
before been, and saw that my fears as to the unguarded window were only
too well justified. I called Karasch’s attention to it.

“If we have to remain in the house that window must be barricaded,
or we may as well throw open the front door,” I said; and we were
discussing it when I heard one of the maids say to the other servants
that the street in the front of the house was getting full of people.

We went and looked out. It was only too true; and that it probably had
a very sinister meaning for us all I knew to my infinite concern.

The city was indeed awaking to a knowledge of the dread doings of
the night of terror, and the crowd was beginning to gather here in
expectation that the house would become the scene of some stirring and
exciting act of the tragedy.

I noticed with relief, however, that no troops were present. None had
been sent yet under the belief that Gatrina would be made prisoner by
the handful of men whose parts we were now playing. But how long this
belief would continue it was impossible to conjecture.

Someone somewhere was waiting to receive the Princess from the hands of
the men; and when they did not arrive with her, the sands of patience
would be few and would soon run out, and a fresh guard sent to know the
reason. When they came, they would bring a heap of trouble with them;
unless I could hurry Gatrina from the house in time.

The need for haste was thus imperative; and I fretted and worried at
the delay she made, all unconscious as she was of the peril it meant to
her and all.

The instant the five minutes’ grace had expired, I sent the two men
upstairs to bring her down, despatching one of the scared maid-servants
to shew them her room.

At that moment we heard sounds below and Chris growled and barked.
Karasch and I, followed by the two men, ran down instantly and found
trouble; one of the soldiers, carelessly bound, had wriggled out of his
cords and liberated a companion; and as we reached the bottom of the
stairs, the two were in the passage with the dog blocking the way to
the door and snarling fiercely.

We rushed toward them, but they slipped into the room where Chris had
had the fight with the leader; and slamming the door in our faces, set
up a clatter loud enough to wake the dead.

Karasch and I dashed ourselves against the door and as we strained to
force it, we heard the crash of glass.

“The garden, Karasch,” I cried; and we unfastened the door and rushed
out. Chris darted out with a growl and in a moment had brought one of
the men to bay. The other fled toward the stable and we ran in pursuit
of him. But he was a quick, agile fellow, and using the little door at
the end as a means of escape, he sprang up it, mounted the wall and
disappeared--to carry the news of our doings heaven alone knew where.

“Back to the house, Karasch. We must get away before that man can bring
help.” We took back his comrade, thrust him into a room, turned the key
upon him, and hurried again up the stairs.

Matters were going against me in the house also; and I was beginning to
realise that I had grievously bungled matters in choosing such a method
to serve Gatrina.

She had done precisely what, if I had not been a dolt, I might have
known a girl of her courage and resolution would do. She had used the
minutes of grace to barricade herself into the room.

The men were waiting for me with the story.

“She has fastened herself into her room, she and her maids, and we
could hear them piling things against the door to keep us out. We tried
to call your message through the door, but at first she wouldn’t
answer; and then she said she was quite safe where she was and would
yield to nothing but force. We didn’t like to force the door without
your orders.”

I clenched my hands in impotent chagrin. Had we been the soldiers whose
part we were playing, there would have been little enough difficulty,
of course; and a few minutes would have sufficed to break a way in and
take her prisoner.

But force was out of the question for me; and I felt like a flustered
fool as the infinitely precious moments slipped away one after another
bringing perilously nearer the troops who would come hurrying to the
house the instant the man who had escaped got his story to headquarters.

To add to the strain of the situation, cries and calls began to be
heard from the crowd in the street. Presently a stone was flung through
one of the windows; and the crash of the glass sent a shiver of fear
through the clustered servants and was followed by a loud cheer from
the crowd and a cry of “Down with the Obrenovics!”

“Shew me the Princess’s room,” I said, and followed by the men I ran
upstairs and knocked on the panel of the door.

There was no answer.

I knocked again.

“For God’s sake open the door and come out,” I said, eagerly.

Still there was no reply; and while we waited more stones were flung
and more windows broken, followed as before by the shouts and hoarse
cries of the mob.

But not a sign would Gatrina make in response to my knocking and appeal.

Every second was bringing the danger nearer--and it was growing to
a double peril now; for Karasch brought me word that the mob was
increasing fast in numbers and were growing so angry that it looked as
though they would attack the house.

I clamoured again at the door and called out that there was imminent
danger; but either she did not hear my voice because of the clamour of
the people without, or hearing it, did not recognise the tone; and held
it to be a ruse of the soldiers to induce her to open the door.

I felt just mad as I cursed my stupidity for having planned this
soldier business, which had thus driven Gatrina to regard these
desperate efforts of ours to save her as the violence of her enemies
bent upon her destruction.

Meanwhile the temper of the populace without was rising so fast
that it seemed as if a few minutes would make escape from the house
impracticable for us all, even if more troops did not arrive.

I hammered again at the door and called her in my loudest tones; I told
the servants of the peril in which she stood if we could not get her
away, and urged them to join with me in appealing to her to yield. But
it was all to no purpose. Not a word would she answer either to them or
to me.

“Get me paper quickly,” I told them; and when one, a white-faced girl,
rushed away on the errand, I whistled up Chris and set him barking in
the hope that she would hear him and know by the sound who was there.

Chris succeeded where I had failed.

“What is that?” It was Gatrina’s voice; and hearing it the dog whined
and barked joyfully.

“It is Chris,” I called. “We are here to save you. Open the door for
the love of God at once.”

“Who is that speaking?”

“It is I, Bourgwan,” I replied, my voice unsteady in my excitement.
“There is not a moment to lose.”

“Where are the soldiers?”

“I will explain all. For God’s sake come or it will be too late. Every
second is precious.”

We heard them drag away something they had placed before the door; and
burning with impatience called again to them to make haste.

At that moment a loud knocking came at the front door of the house; and
one of Karasch’s men came running to say that the soldiers were in the
street.

“We daren’t stay to be caught in these uniforms. We shall be shot
off-hand at a time like this,” he said; and the others agreed.

“You’ll be shot by me if you attempt to desert me now,” I answered
desperately. “Before anyone can get in, we shall be away. Stop them,
Karasch. In a few moments we shall all be away.”

Again there came the loud knocking and clanging of the bell, followed
by the cries of the mob and another shower of stones at the house.

Unable to hold their courage longer my men turned and ran down the
stairs helter-skelter.

There was a moment’s calm without and in the silence the room door
unlocked and Gatrina came out.

Not recognising me for an instant in the surprise at seeing my
officer’s uniform, and Karasch by me dressed also as a soldier, she
started back as if fearing treachery; but Chris rushed up to her and
disarmed her fear.

“Would God you had come out before,” I cried.

Before she could reply we heard the sound of a scuffle and two of the
men came running back.

“We are too late. The soldiers are already in the house below,” cried
one, breathlessly. “We are as good as dead men.”

Even Karasch changed colour at the news.




CHAPTER XXVI.

CHRIS TO THE RESCUE.


It was the delay which had been fatal to the plan. The minutes during
which we had had to wait before Gatrina could be made to understand who
we were and what our object was had just turned the balance against us.

“What dreadful thing has happened?” she asked.

“I cannot spare a moment to explain. If you will play the part of being
my prisoner there is yet a chance of getting away.”

“I am sorry,” she said, as her maid brought her a cloak and hat.

“Silence there,” I cried in a loud voice. “Fall in. I am sorry my
duty is so unpleasant, your highness; but I can answer no questions.
Forward.”

I led the way motioning to Karasch to walk at Gatrina’s side, with two
of the men in front and two bringing up the rear. The women thinking
the thing real began to weep.

I had heard the soldiers coming up and they met us on the stairs. The
only chance was to put as bold a face as possible on the matter and
with as much show of authority as I could assume, I said:

“Is the way from the house clear? I shall take the prisoner by the back
through the garden.”

I had expected to be faced by some of the men we had fought with
earlier, but to my intense relief there were none but private soldiers
and one sergeant; and on seeing my captain’s uniform they stood aside
and saluted.

“We have not been to the back of the house, captain,” replied the
sergeant.

“Is Colonel Petrosch here yet?” I asked this as I thought the mention
of the name might impress him.

“No, sir.”

“Who’s in command of the soldiers in the front?”

“Lieutenant Bulver, captain.”

“Is he in sufficient force to control the mob?”

“He has a strong body of troops, captain.”

“What are you doing in the house?” I was curious to know whether the
escape of the soldiers had anything to do with it.

“We were detailed to see if the arrest had yet been made, captain, and
to assist you if necessary.”

I breathed a little more freely.

“All I need is that the mob there be kept in the front of the house so
that I can get away with the prisoner quietly at the back. That side
street must be cleared of people. How did you get into the house?”

“We forced a small door at the side, captain.”

This accounted for his not knowing anything of what had gone on below
stairs in the basement.

Then came the sound of more hooting and groaning from the front of the
house; and another volley of stones breaking more of the windows. This
in turn was followed by sharp words of command; and a knocking at the
front door.

Keeping up my policy of bluff, I opened it myself. The officer was on
the step and started in surprise at seeing me. He was a pleasant-faced
young fellow, and taking me for a superior officer was disposed to
offer an apology. Bluff is an excellent policy while you can keep your
end up.

“Oh, I thought only a sergeant was here,” he said.

“I deemed it best to come myself,” I answered. “Can’t you keep the
crowd in order?”

“They are very strong and inclined to violence. We’ve driven them back
for a bit; but I’ve sent for more men.”

I knew they would be on hand sooner than he thought or I wished; but I
replied, seriously: “Very prudent. This sort of thing is not what we
want at all. The house was to be protected.”

“We did not look for such a demonstration,” he said again,
apologetically.

“Well, I have made the arrest, but I had more trouble than I
anticipated; there was a stout resistance. I wish to take the prisoner
away without exposing her to the mob. Let your men clear the side
street of people, and prevent anyone passing into it. I shall leave the
house by the garden through the stables.”

“We are strong enough to protect her from the crowd.”

“I prefer the other way, lieutenant. Be good enough to see my order
carried out,” I replied sharply.

“I’ll have it done at once,” and he went away.

“You had better help the lieutenant, sergeant; he will need all the men
he can have.”

In this way I got rid of him and his men also, and I shut the door
again, with a fervent sigh of thankfulness that my imposture had not
been detected. I had caught the lieutenant eyeing me curiously more
than once during the short colloquy; but I concluded that he took me
for one of the officers who had been drafted in from the provincial
regiments for the grim work of that night. And probably my air and tone
of authority had stopped him from putting any questions which I should
have found exceedingly hard to answer.

Whatever his reasons, I had succeeded in bluffing him, even at the very
moment when I had given up all as lost; and my hopes began to rise that
even in the teeth of all this force and despite the anger of the mob,
Gatrina would be saved.

“We’ll make for the garden at once,” I said; and we passed through the
room with the French window opening on to the garden, and hurried to
the stables.

As we passed we could hear the troops clearing the street amid the
expostulations and cries of the crowd, as they were swept on toward the
front.

Until now Gatrina had not spoken to me, but we had to wait while the
way was cleared and we stood side by side and a little apart from the
rest.

“You have run a terrible risk, Mr. Bergwyn,” she said.

“I have been in no danger; and we shall get away all right.”

“What has happened at the Palace?”

“I don’t know. I got wind of this intended arrest of you and came here
in the hope of intercepting the soldiers. As I was on my way, a very
large body of troops, some hundreds of men, passed me marching on the
Palace; and afterwards I heard the sound of firing. But what occurred
after that I have no knowledge whatever.”

She wrung her hands despairingly.

“Do you think--oh, God, it is maddening.”

“It is the work of the army. I know so much. And I hope they have done
no more than to force an abdication.”

“You say that as if you feared--I know not what horrors.”

“If we once get clear of this we shall find out what has occurred. But
we could do nothing if we wished. You have seen for yourself the temper
of the people. They have sided with the army.”

“You mean the attack on my house?”

“Yes. The city is mad to-night, and would do anything. The only thing
to think of now is your safety. Karasch, look over if we can go yet.”

I was on fire with impatience to be away; but Karasch reported that the
street was not yet clear.

“Is there no other way we could escape?” I asked Gatrina.

She shook her head. “No, none,” she replied.

“I dare not wait here, Karasch; we shall be caught in a trap;” and
opening the door in the stable gates I looked out; but only to shut it
again quickly as I caught my breath in dismay at what I saw.

Another body of troops were coming towards us at the double, and by the
side of the officer in command ran a man in his shirt sleeves. It was
the soldier who had escaped from us.

“We are too late,” I said, as calmly as I could speak. “There are more
troops, Karasch, and that man is guiding them. We must go back to the
house and try to get away from the front.”

We hurried back through the garden, and before we reached the house the
newcomers were already clamouring at the stable gates.

Dashing through the house I flung open the front door.

But that way was impossible. The very orders I had given, to have the
crowd massed in the front of the house, had effectually barred the
chance of escape. They had been driven from the side street and were
now surging and swaying in a dense mass to the right of the house, too
vast a crowd for me to hope of pushing my way through them with the
handful of men I had.

To go to the left meant only running into the arms of the fresh troops;
certain capture.

I called Karasch and pointed to the hopelessness of the attempt.

“We can do nothing. You and the men must get away.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I shall stay with the Princess.”

“Then I stay too, with you,” he said sturdily.

“No, you can do better. You can save us both. You and the others. You
can pretend to carry a message from me to the lieutenant--that I want
to speak to him; and then lose yourselves among the soldiers or in the
crowd. Get away as fast as you can, and search high and low to find
Colonel Petrosch. Don’t forget the name, and find him at any hazard.
Tell him that my life is in danger and that he must come here if it is
not to be lost. If he questions you, tell him plainly all I have done.
Now go.”

“I don’t like leaving you,” he insisted.

“For God’s sake, man, don’t be a fool. It’s the only way out of the
tightest fix I was ever in. You must reach him before he hears the news
these others are bringing. Go;” and I half pushed him out of the house.

The rest were only too eager to be off, and I watched breathlessly as
Karasch crossed the cleared space, spoke to the lieutenant, who looked
over at me and after hesitating, walked toward me.

As he came, I saw Karasch and his men move back to the soldiers, push
through the ranks, and disappear in the crowd behind them.

“What have you done?” asked Gatrina.

“I have sent for someone who may get us out of the mess I have been
clever enough to get us into. I don’t know what’s going to happen
first.”

The lieutenant entered the house then.

“You wish to speak to me, captain?” he asked.

“It’s just as well to you as to another. I’m only masquerading in this
uniform. I am not an officer at all.”

He stared at me openmouthed in sheer amazement.

“No officer?” he stammered. “I don’t understand.”

“You soon will. There are those coming who will make it all plain to
you. But having misled you purposely, I wished to tell you; that’s
all.” I spoke as coolly as though I had been announcing a mere business
fact.

“The soldiers who were with you?” he asked then, glancing round as if
in search of them.

“They are gone,” I told him.

Then we heard a noise in the basement. Loud voices, the tramp of many
feet, and a rush up the stairs.

“We’ll wait for them here,” I said to Gatrina, pointing to a room at
the back of the house; and we all three went into it, Chris keeping
close by her side.

“You are my prisoner, sir,” said the lieutenant.

“I shall offer no resistance,” I replied, making it sound as much like
a concession on my part as I could.

I put a chair for Gatrina and she sat down, while I stood beside her.

The next minute the soldiers came crowding into the room with the
sergeant and men whose uniforms we had taken in their midst. They
were all talking at once and gesticulating at once angrily, making a
sort of Babel of tongues, in which fierce denunciations of me were
disquietingly loud and conspicuous.

The officer in charge of the newcomers exchanged a few words with the
lieutenant, describing excitedly the heinous deed of which I had been
guilty. I disliked the look of him intensely--a heavy, red-haired
bully of a man, and when he addressed me he did so in a hectoring tone
difficult to hear without anger.

“So we’ve arrived in time to take you red-handed, my fine fellow, eh?”

“Red-handed? In doing what?” I asked, meeting his beetle-browed stare
firmly.

“Don’t try to bluster with me. I’m the wrong man,” he cried, hotly. “It
won’t pay you, I promise you.”

“He was one of them, captain. I’ll swear to him. And that’s the dog
that flew at me,” said the sergeant.

“Take the beast out and shoot it,” ordered the captain, brutally.

Chris was in no immediate danger of that fate, however. Two of the
soldiers went toward him but he shewed his great fangs and looked so
dangerous, that they stopped and stepped back; and no other volunteers
offered for the job.

Angered at this the captain himself drew a revolver and pointed it at
the dog, but I checkmated this by calling Chris round behind me.

“Don’t you dare to interfere with my orders,” cried the bully,
furiously.

I answered this by putting myself right in the line of fire. “I will
not have the dog shot in this way.”

“The dog is in my house and under my protection,” exclaimed Gatrina.

“You are my prisoners, both of you; and as for you,” he said, with a
coarse sneer to Gatrina, “your day is done, and your protection will
avail nothing. You’ll find that out soon enough.” But he put up his
revolver; and as we had gained the point, it wasn’t policy to anger him
further with the hot remonstrance that rose to my lips.

“Did this man give you his name?” he asked the lieutenant, who shook
his head and shrugged his shoulders. I think he was more than a little
ashamed of his superior’s manner. “What’s your name, prisoner?”
demanded the captain next.

“I am perfectly willing to explain everything I have done; but I should
prefer to do so before a smaller audience.”

“I daresay you would, but you’re not in a position to choose. I settle
that. Now answer my questions and don’t try to lie to me.”

The colour leapt to my face at this. “There is no need to insult me,
captain. It will neither hurt my case, nor help yours.”

“By God, if you don’t answer me at once I’ll have you marched down into
the garden there and shot for a traitor and a cur.”

I couldn’t take that. It made me mad. Clipping my words short I
answered, deliberately:

“I think that would be the better plan, then. It will at least free me
from the presence of a cad and a bully; and the lieutenant there will,
I am sure, have the courage and justice to tell the truth of your act.”

He swore a deep oath, beside himself with rage.

“Seize him,” he shouted. “By God, seize him, and take him out and shoot
him.”

I was seized by three soldiers.

“Lieutenant, you will tell Colonel Petrosch how I, his personal friend,
have been condemned without a hearing.”

“Away with him,” shouted the captain, stamping with rage. The men began
to lead me away.

“This is murder, and shall not be done,” cried Gatrina, jumping to her
feet.

“Silence, woman,” exclaimed the bully. “Your doom is near, too.”

“I will not be silent while murder is being done. I call upon all of
you to stop this murder. You, sir,” turning to the lieutenant. “You
will not----”

The captain, like a maniac in his fury at this interruption, drew his
sword and shouting out a vile epithet, rushed at Gatrina, intending, I
believe, to strike her down.

But Chris, whose ominous growl at my treatment I had had to pacify,
went almost as mad at this as the bully himself and with a savage growl
launched himself right at the captain’s throat, bore him to the ground,
and pinned him down, despite the blows and kicks which the soldiers
rained upon him.

“Loose him, Chris,” I cried, fearing the man would be killed; and at my
voice he obeyed. Then, as he was looking up to me, one of the soldiers
who had picked up the captain’s sword slashed at the dog’s leg and
when he dropped, the brute thrust the blade between his ribs.

With a cry of rage I broke from the men who held me and rushed to
Chris, but Gatrina was before me.

“You coward!” she cried to the soldier, who stood half gloating, half
dismayed at his act; and the next moment my fist crashed into his face,
knocking him sprawling among his comrades.

As I bent over my gallant dog, my heart full of sadness and pity for
him, I was seized again by the men, and such a scene of confusion and
riot followed as baffles description.

They beat me, of course, and I was dragged back and held panting,
struggling, straining, breathing out impotent threats, and cursing all
who had had a hand in the cruel work, as I strove vainly to get again
to the spot where Gatrina, white-faced and pitying, knelt by the dear
dog, who had so valiantly given his life to save her.

Another group had the bully of a captain for its centre. He was getting
up, all bloody about the throat where Chris had fastened on him, and
madder than ever with rage, gasped out a repetition of his orders to
have Gatrina seized and me taken away and shot.

Still fighting with the men about me I was being lugged and hustled and
thrust out of the room, oblivious to everything but my insensate rage,
and they had got me to the door when two officers entered the house.

“What is this riot?” cried one in a loud, stern tone; and the men
about me started instantly at the voice and I felt their grip on me to
relax.

“It is murder; nothing else,” I shouted; and taking advantage of my
captors’ surprise, I broke from them and rushed back into the room to
Gatrina and my poor Chris.

“Is he dead?” I asked her.

She looked up and I read the truth by the tears in her eyes.

“Poor, faithful Chris,” she murmured, with a deep sigh, as her hand
gently caressed the great head.

I could not speak. I had loved the dog so well--and never better than
in the manner of his death. I bent over him for a moment with a feeling
of irreparable loss, as at the death of a friend.

“He gave his life for me, Bourgwan. Poor old comrade,” murmured Gatrina
using, unconsciously I think, the old term.

In that moment the tie of our common sorrow for the dog’s death brought
us as close together as even in those past days in the hills.

I made no reply. I could not. I was tongue-tied by the hampering rush
of mingled emotions.




CHAPTER XXVII.

MY DEFENCE.


The grip of a hand on my shoulder roused me from my reverie. A couple
of soldiers stood one on either side of me; and as I turned I saw the
red brute of a captain being supported out of the room. The officer who
had arrived last had taken command and was sitting at a table with the
lieutenant standing at his side. With much relief I recognised him at
once. He was a Major Kireef whom I had met at the Palace reception.

I was placed in front of him, and two or three of the soldiers took up
positions by Gatrina. As the major held my fate and perhaps my life
in his hands, I scrutinised him closely. He was a man between forty
and fifty years of age; his face strong but not harsh; his manner
peremptory as of one accustomed to exact prompt obedience; but he gave
me the impression that he would deal justly even if sternly. A vastly
different type of man from the red-headed, passionate beast whose place
he had taken. And I was heartily thankful for the exchange.

He glanced sharply at me and with a slight start turned to some notes
he had made of what the others had told him. I guessed that he had some
recollection of my features and was probably looking for my name.

“You are Major Kireef, I think?” I said, while his eyes were still on
the papers. He looked up quickly and frowned.

“You are not to question me,” he rapped out, very curtly. Then: “I see
no mention of your name here. What is it?”

“The man who has just left was going to have me shot without troubling
to find out,” I replied, getting that fact out as soon as I could.

“Be good enough to remember you are a prisoner, and that you will not
help your case by either evading my questions or attempting to bring
charges against others. Now, your name?”

“Chase F. Bergwyn, a citizen of the United States.”

He dropped his pen in surprise and half started to his feet.

“Mr. Bergwyn?” he exclaimed. “It is not possible.”

“If you can send a message to Colonel Petrosch he will confirm what
I say, major. I met you at the Reception at the Palace just after my
arrival in Belgrade. You may remember me.”

I had every cause to be satisfied with the effect of my words. He
paused a moment as if in doubt what to do, and then waved back the
soldiers who stood by me.

“Have the room cleared,” he said to the lieutenant. “Put a chair for
Mr. Bergwyn there.” I moved my chair near to Gatrina and while the room
was cleared, he busied himself with his notes.

“Shall I remain, major?” asked the lieutenant, when the men had gone.

“Yes, for the present;” and the young officer went back to his place,
having to step over poor old Chris, whose body, now that the place was
empty, lay in full view, a conspicuous, ghastly evidence of the wild
scene just ended.

“There must surely have been some unaccountable mistake, Mr. Bergwyn?”
he said, interrogatively and courteously when we four were alone;
“judging, that is, by the extraordinary story which has been told to
me. I invite you to explain.”

“I asked the captain who has been hurt to allow me to do so privately;
but he declined. Let me thank you for having cleared the room. There
is a further favour you can do me, and a much more important one. Let
someone go at once in search of Colonel Petrosch. I won’t disguise
from you I have placed myself in a very awkward position, and as he
and I have had some very confidential relations--you may perhaps know
that--it is of vital importance I should have his assistance.”

“This matter is in my hands, and I must investigate the facts before
taking any other action. The charges against you are very grave--if you
are indeed the person implicated.”

“If you will put any questions I will answer them,” I said,
disappointed by his refusal of my request.

“You have represented yourself as an officer of the Servian army?”

“Yes.”

“You, with others who appear to have escaped, violently ill-treated the
guard who were sent here to arrest this lady--Princess Gatrina?”

“It may pass at that; although the ill-treatment was not very violent.”

“You set your dog on one of them?”

“The man was going to arrest me, and I would not permit that. But he
was not hurt.”

“You then forcibly took from five of the men their uniforms that your
men might wear them as a disguise and personate troops of the line.”

“Yes, that is true.”

His eyebrows went up and he pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders.
Very ominous gestures.

“Who were the men with you?”

“That I cannot answer. The responsibility is mine and mine only. They
were men whom I paid to assist me.”

“That is a very grave admission, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“I am quite aware of it. It’s a very tight corner, indeed.”

“Was anyone cognisant of your plans?”

“No one.”

“This lady?”

“No, certainly not.”

“You are wearing a captain’s uniform. How did you get it?”

“I borrowed it without leave--stole it, perhaps I ought to say; except
that I shall return it to the owner.”

“Who is the owner?”

“That I cannot answer.”

“Yet you say no one--not even the owner of the uniform--was in league
with you?”

“Not even the owner of this uniform.”

He appeared to find this difficult to believe; and it began to look as
if I had done Nikolitch a bad turn.

“It is very extraordinary.”

“I have told you the truth, major. I give you my word of honour as an
American citizen.”

“Now then as to your object. What was that?”

“I wished to prevent the Princess Gatrina being arrested by the army,
and to place her in safety until the passions of this night’s doings
in the city had cooled sufficiently for the officers to have time to
consider their course in regard to her.”

“I am loath to take that answer, Mr. Bergwyn--it only makes your case
worse.”

“I can’t help that, major. It is the truth.”

“You interfered deliberately to oppose the plans of the army?”

“I interfered to prevent at least one deed of blood being done in the
frenzy of to-night’s passion.”

“Who are you to set yourself against the army, sir?” he retorted very
sternly.

“The English blood in my veins and my instincts as an American citizen
alike revolt against the insensate violence of such an act as that
intended, and I used such means as I had to prevent it. I staked my
life on the issue; and if the army choose to claim the forfeit, I will
pay it.”

“Why do you say such an act was intended?”

“The answer is supplied in what has occurred to-night at the Palace,
Major Kireef. That I could not prevent, although, God knows, I would
have done so had I had the power.”

Gatrina, who had been listening breathlessly to all this, intervened
then. “What has occurred at the Palace?” she asked strenuously. “Surely
no violence.”

“The King and Queen have come in conflict with the troops, and their
Majesties have lost their lives in consequence.” The answer was given
with cold deliberation; and I took it for the official version of
Elma’s one word prophecy--assassination.

Gatrina was overcome by the news and threw herself back in her seat,
her face covered by her hands.

“Are they the only lives that have been--lost?” I asked.

“I cannot answer you, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“Perhaps not; but you can at any rate see in my question the reason for
all I have done to-night--even if to you it does not appear to be a
justification.”

“The arrest of the Princess will of course take place,” he answered,
“and you, Mr. Bergwyn, will have to answer to the army for what you
have done.”

“I am ready to face the band; but I am not the only one who will have
to do that. That red-headed murderer who was here just now----”

“I cannot hear this,” he interposed.

“It’s part of my case, if you please,” said I, warmly. “He not only
told the Princess, like the coward he is, that she was to die, but he
himself drew his sword upon her. Then it was that my dog there flew at
him--and I only wish he had torn his cowardly life out of him.”

“You may have an opportunity of defence.”

“‘May have,’” I cried, indignantly. “You are talking to an American
citizen, sir, and you’ll find out how that Government views the acts
of her people when they try to prevent innocent blood being shed, even
if the acts themselves are wrong. I demand, right now, to have the
protection of my country’s representative.”

“Your crime has been committed against the army, sir,” he said, coldly.

“Crime? Crime you call it?” I answered, passionately. “Crime? To tie
up half a dozen men in order to prevent a real crime, murder, being
committed? If mine is the crime, all I can say is I am guilty of it,
and would be guilty of it a hundred times over.”

“This heat will serve no purpose, Mr. Bergwyn,” said the major, after a
pause.

“You’re right there; we’ll have no more of it. I’ll tell you how the
thing arose--for I’ve nothing to conceal;” and I told him plainly how
I had overheard the talk between the spy from Gatrina’s house and just
what I had done afterwards.

“And now, if you’ll send out in search of Colonel Petrosch, it will
save much time, anxiety and trouble for all concerned.”

“I must consider my course. I am not answerable to Colonel Petrosch
alone, I fear. The Princess must be prepared to go with my men.”

“I will go,” declared Gatrina, with instant readiness.

“The Princess is already under arrest, Major Kireef. She is at your
disposal here just as much as anywhere else. Why can she not remain
until Colonel Petrosch comes? I have his word of honour that he will do
everything in his power to protect her.”

“I have my duty to do, Mr. Bergwyn.”

“I am sure it cannot be your conception of duty to place her where she
will be in danger of her life. It is but a matter of an hour or two.
You are in possession of the house. No attempt will be made by her, I
am sure, any more than by me, to escape; and if it were made, you are
in such force here that it would be impossible. Let her remain here
until at least Colonel Petrosch arrives.”

He shook his head. “My instructions are definite.”

“Well, I’ll give you another reason. You know, perhaps, the general
nature of the matters which have been discussed between Colonel
Petrosch and myself. The result of them may depend upon your decision
now. The Colonel would confirm this.”

He thought a moment. “I should like to do as you wish. Will you give me
your word of honour to attempt no escape?”

“Certainly, I will. If I’m to get out of this mess, it will be by very
different means, I assure you.”

He considered again for a space, and then rose. “I accept your word,
Mr. Bergwyn, and will leave you while I send for Colonel Petrosch, and
consider what else to do.”

I gave a deep sigh of relief when he left the room. I had pulled
through the first stage; and that was something. I glanced at Gatrina’s
face, ashen, horror-filled, and drawn with trouble and suffering. I
could not bear to witness it, so I turned away and stared blankly out
of the window into the darkness, now changing rapidly to the grey of
the dawn.

For a long time not a word was spoken. Her agony of mind was far beyond
words; and nothing that I could do or say could relieve it.

She was not thinking of herself, I knew. All thought of self, even the
uncertainty of her own fate involving as it did the issue of life and
death, was lost in the numbing, staggering blow dealt by the news of
the Queen’s murder.

Now and again a moaning sigh burst from her lips and told me how
acute was her agony. Twice I turned to make some clumsy attempt at
consolation; but each time the look her face bore stopped the words on
my lips, and I turned back to watch the light without strengthening
slowly as the time crept on.

I had one consoling thought. The longer the interval between the fell
occurrences at the Palace and the coming of the soldiers for Gatrina,
the stronger grew the hope that she might escape the fate which had
been decreed for her.

That thought led me slowly to another--the necessity of having
a definite proposal to make as to Gatrina’s future movements. I
remembered what Colonel Petrosch had said as to the wish of the army
that she would go from Belgrade.

Now that the King was dead, the question of the succession had become
acute. Gatrina’s presence in the city might be a greater embarrassment
than before in the settlement of that question. I recalled, too, Elma’s
statement of the Russian scheme in this respect. Even those who, like
that brute of a captain, had resolved to cut the knot of the difficulty
with a sword blade, might be glad to be relieved of her presence.

Foul, dastardly, inhuman even, as was the policy of assassination, it
was yet founded upon a sort of crude, barbarous logic. The resolve
to exterminate the dynasty was the murderous major premise; and the
relentless and hideous resolve to put to death all who, by claims of
family, stood in the way, followed as a ruthless consequence.

That was Gatrina’s danger. But if she would consent to abrogate her
claims and could be prevailed upon to leave the city at once, there
was the chance that she might even yet be spared. Colonel Petrosch
had avowed his desire to spare her; and if he could be assured that
she would offer no opposition to the army, his hands would be greatly
strengthened.

I might at least use the fact to induce him to allow nothing to be done
that night; and the delay of a few hours might mean everything. I had
calculated throughout that when the wild passions of all concerned in
the night of horror had had time to abate, the craving for blood even
of the most reckless of the reckless would cease. A reaction against
further violence would be almost certain to follow, and counsels of
sanity, reason and prudence would prevail once more.

The light of day and the hours of reflection would thus bring hope,
and I watched the light increase with unspeakable thankfulness. But
question Gatrina I must, and at length I went back to my seat and
turned to her.

“We must speak about yourself,” I said.

In her absorption and suffering she had not noticed my movement, and
started nervously at the sound of my voice; but said nothing.

“Your danger is not yet passed,” I continued; “and when the officers
return we must have something definite to say about yourself.”

“I care nothing for myself,” she murmured, desolately.

“Your life is in danger, and you must care,” I said, firmly. I must
rouse her by some means.

“If they covet my life, let them take it--after this.”

“I will not let you say that. You are speaking now under the influence
of these horrors, and from the feelings of desperation which they
naturally prompt. But you must think of yourself, and you shall. You
have no right to throw your life away because things have been done
which you were powerless to prevent.”

“Do you think I fear death? If they covet my life, let them take it,”
she repeated.

“The sacrifice of your life can do no good to those who are already
dead, Princess. It is only cowardly to feel this indifference.”

“I would rather be a coward and die than beg my life at the hands of
these murderers. I will hear no more.”

She spoke with more animation than before: and so long as I could rouse
her from the stupor of her grief and horror, I knew I was doing good.
If she could be provoked to anger, so much the better. I cared not what
I said.

“You cannot avoid hearing me, and I am resolved to speak,” I continued,
deliberately. “And you owe it to me to listen carefully.”

The curl of her lip shewed that she thought this about as mean as it
sounded. But she did not reply.

“You must have heard me, and if you are not a coward of another kind,
you will reply.” I felt an awful brute as I said this; but it had its
effect. She started up, clasping the arms of her chair and leaning
forward, looked at me with amazement, anger and bitterness. But I went
on doggedly: “Not your life only but mine also is in the balance, and I
have the right to expect you to make an effort.”

“The right?” The words came like a flash of contempt.

“Yes, a double right,” I said, in the same stubborn tone, intending to
anger her. “I saved your life in the Gravenje hills and I came here now
to save you again.”

“My God, I did not think a man could be found to speak thus at such
a time,” she cried. She was angry enough now even to forget for the
moment her grief.

“You are angry because I remind you of this, and consequently do me the
injustice of such a taunt.”

“I heard your words, sir,” she cried.

“But you didn’t understand them. I spoke as I did to rouse your anger
and make you think of other things beside your trouble, and having
gained that end, we’ll go back to where we began to speak of yourself.”

“How could you? How dared you?” she wailed, sinking back in her seat
again.

“I would do anything and dare anything to make you think of
yourself--even let you deem me as mean a hound as my words implied. You
must face this thing resolutely. I have one thought that may give us
hope.”

“I cannot think or speak of anything now. I--I am sorry for my words
just now.”

“They don’t matter any. If you had thought or said anything less, you
wouldn’t have been yourself, and I should have been disappointed in
you. Now, there’s one thing that may help us. Let me be able to tell
Colonel Petrosch when he comes that you renounce all claims to the
succession and consent to leave Belgrade before nightfall.”

“Would you have me run away in the hour of danger from a crowd of
dastardly assassins?”

“I would have you recognise facts as they are--that the army have the
upper hand, for the time at any rate, and that they are resolved no
member of your family shall sit on the throne of this country. I would
have you save your life, Princess, by the only means that I believe it
can be saved.”

“No,” she cried, vehemently. “No one shall ever say I ran away. That
I----”

“Wait,” I interposed. “Don’t take an oath about it. An oath is an
awkward thing to break; but a resolve one can argue against.”

“Nothing shall persuade me to be such a coward.”

“Well, let us argue it out,” I answered.

But there was to be no chance of doing that; for as I was speaking
Colonel Petrosch and the Major entered the room.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

“I CANNOT LEAVE MY COUNTRY.”


The black tragedy of the night had scored its mark deep on Colonel
Petrosch, and I shall not readily forget the look of high-wrought
strain which his face wore. All the lines had deepened; the eyes shone
with unnatural brilliance, the sockets were sunken, and the face skin
had that dead steely colour which comes after hours of fierce and
passionate tension.

He looked as though he had lived ten years in as many hours, and knew
himself to be still confronted by uncontrollable dangers full of the
menace of utter ruin and incalculable disaster.

Twice before I had seen such a look on men’s faces. Once in the case
of a reckless Westerner who, in the teeth of warning, started a
forest fire only to see it spread with fierce violence down upon his
own homestead, menacing his wife and children and all he had in the
world, and barring the path of rescue with a wall of impassable flame.
The other was a millionaire who, in a desperate plunge to double his
millions, was caught by the market, and had to look on helplessly while
he and his friends were beggared in a day.

And I read Petrosch’s look now to mean that he had helped to set in
motion this wild revolt and was shocked by the violence already done
and appalled by the prospect of what might yet have to follow.

I was glad to find it so. He might prove to be in a better mood to
judge on its merits the effort I had made to save Gatrina. There had
been enough horrors already to glut his anger; and he looked to the
future with apprehension genuine enough to render him willing to
prevent the commission of more.

He greeted Gatrina and me very formally, as he and Major Kireef took
their seats at the table.

“You have incurred a fearful responsibility, Mr. Bergwyn,” he began.
“Major Kireef has told me the facts. You have taken an unwarrantable
course in attempting to thwart the army’s purpose, and have used means
which are inexcusable.”

“They were the only means I could find to use.”

“You have compromised yourself and all with you; you have opposed the
soldiers when carrying out the army’s orders, and have subjected them
to gross ill-treatment, in order that you might obtain disguises for
your purpose. And in doing this, you have committed acts for which you
must have known you would have to answer. I can see neither excuse nor
palliation for such conduct.”

I made no reply to that tirade. I judged that he had not taken the
trouble to come at such a time merely to lecture me on the heinousness
of my conduct; and as I cared nothing for what he said, and only for
what he meant to do, I let him talk.

“You yourself see there is no answer,” he continued; and went on to
condemn at considerable length with much detail the enormity of my
offences, until I began to be perplexed as to his motive. He couldn’t
have made the thing worse had he been going to order my instant
execution.

I guessed at length, however, that his real object was to make me
appreciate the extreme difficulty of the task I had set him to get me
out of the mess. But the harangue had a very different effect upon
Gatrina. The blacker he made my conduct appear and the more vividly
he painted the danger in which I stood, the greater was her manifest
agitation; and when he declared with very stern and significant
deliberation that at such times men had lost their lives who had done
less than I, I resolved to try and stop him.

“It will save time, Colonel Petrosch, if you are going to order me
to be shot, to have it done at once,” I said. “I am not in the least
ashamed of a single thing I have done, except that I blundered and
failed.”

“Do I understand you to mean, Mr. Bergwyn,” he cried, very sternly,
“that you would have me report to my colleagues that in the face of all
I have said you take pride in having set their authority at defiance?”

A hot retort rose to my lips, but just before it passed, I caught his
meaning and paused to consider my reply.

“No, I don’t mean that. I recognise their authority fully. In so far
as my actions have involved an apparent defiance of that authority, I
must, of course, regret them.”

“It would be impossible for the army to take any but the sternest view
of such acts, when committed by one who is avowedly their enemy.”

“You know better than anyone in Belgrade whether I am to be classed as
an enemy, Colonel. I am quite prepared to recognise their authority in
the country; although feeling nothing but the strongest aversion from
the hopeless deeds by which it has been enforced.”

“These are no concerns of yours, sir.”

“Except as they are the concerns of humanity. I do not set up to be
the judge of their acts: the world will do that. I am a stranger
and a foreigner, and speak as one; no more. God send that the after
consequences may prove in some sort the justification for what has been
done.”

“That is the prayer of us all,” he answered, very solemnly, speaking
out of that secret fear which possessed him.

A pause followed which Gatrina broke to ask: “Has any blood been shed
beside that of the King and Queen, Colonel Petrosch?”

“Madam, I cannot speak of these matters with you,” he replied,
brusquely. “I came for other purposes--one of them to find a way if I
can to place you out of--of the reach of harm.” His hesitation over the
last phrase was significant; but the declaration gave me intense and
unbounded satisfaction.

“I will deal with your case first, Mr. Bergwyn. May I take it that
you regret your defiance of the army, and are prepared now to submit
yourself unconditionally to their authority?”

“Unconditionally? What does that mean?”

“That you will not again attempt to dispute it.”

“I am prepared to express my regret and to recognise their authority.”

“That is the same thing,” he said. It was not, of course, but I
concluded he needed some kind of assurance from me; and when I had
given it, he conferred in an undertone with Major Kireef. Then he rose.
“I must speak with you in private, Mr. Bergwyn;” and he led me to
another room.

As soon as we were alone he took my hand and wrung it.

“You have caused a great deal of trouble, but personally I thank you
for what you have done. I believe you have saved the Princess’s life;
and God knows there have been too many taken.”

“What has occurred?”

“The King and Queen are dead; the Queen’s brothers have been shot;
several of the members of the Government have also fallen; and the
Princess was to have shared the same fate, because of her succession
claims. But it may be possible to save her now.”

“Possible only?”

“I used the term advisedly--possible. It must depend upon the course of
events to-day. Why did you not prevail upon her to leave the country or
at least seek some place of safety?”

“You forget. You told me nothing of the imminence of these horrors.”

“When I saw you I did not know myself. I helped to raise the storm,
but when once it broke it was ungovernable.”

“What will happen to-day?”

“Who can tell? The army holds the power; and we believe from what we
have already seen that the people will stand behind us to a man. The
city has already broken out into rejoicings, and the soldiers are
cheered everywhere. But a mob is as fickle as a summer breeze; and if
a change comes over them, nothing can save a conflict which may deluge
the city, aye, the whole country with blood. I am dazed when I think of
it.”

“And the Princess?”

“I would not answer even for your safety, Mr. Bergwyn; nor even for my
own; to say nothing of hers. But I hope all will be well. The leaders
of the army have had their fill of horrors; and if the day finds the
people supporting them, this night will have seen the last of these
measures of despair. God give that it may be so,” he cried with
impressive earnestness.

“Let us get to details,” I said after a pause. I was terribly anxious
again. “What do you advise?”

“That you leave Belgrade at once for a time. Let me carry an expression
of your regret back with me, and a pledge that the matter of the loan
will be considered as soon as the new Government is established. You
have acted in a way that, had you been other than you are, the army
would never have forgiven; but when once the present fever is past,
there is no one who would think of dealing harshly with the man who can
render the assistance you can. But much must depend on what happens
later to-day when the facts about the night’s doings at the Palace are
published. Therefore I say, go for the time.”

“And the men who were with me?”

“Are they known?”

“I think not. They were not arrested.”

“Then no inquiries will be made; but it would be safer for them also to
leave for a time.”

“And now the great question--the Princess?”

He paused and looked at me. “Would she leave with you?”

“Would she be allowed to leave?”

“She would be allowed to escape,” he answered. “If she remains, she
will be placed in confinement; and if the army’s plans go right, she
will be sent out of the country. The Queen’s sisters have been placed
in similar confinement; and they too will be liberated and exiled
unless trouble comes. If that happens, the Princess would be again in
imminent peril. She would be a menace to the only real solution of the
crisis--the change of dynasty. And the army have given stern enough
proofs of its resolve in that matter. It has already decided upon the
future King--Peter Karageorgevics.”

“Can I speak to her alone?”

“Yes! tell her what I have just said; and if you have any influence
with her use every shred of it to prevail upon her to go. You will be
doing not only her a service but the country also. I will return in an
hour or so to learn the result.”

“If she refuses to go?”

He threw up his hands. “There will be only one course open.”

“Arrest?”

“Arrest, yes; with all its possibilities.”

I went back then to Gatrina, and her eyes fastened upon my face
instantly, full of apprehensive questioning anxiety. I looked probably
as grave as I felt; the Colonel’s last words having made me fully alive
to the vital issues which depended upon the coming interview; and her
anxiety deepened into fear as I took my seat without speaking.

An orderly came in almost directly with a message for the major, who
went out, and then we two were alone again.

“About yourself?” asked Gatrina, eagerly, as the door closed behind
them.

“I have no longer anything to fear. All that the Colonel said was for
the other man’s benefit, I think. I am free to leave Belgrade when I
will; and indeed he urged me to do so at once.”

“I am glad--so glad,” she answered, with a wan smile and a sigh of
relief. “He succeeded in frightening me. I did not realise before he
spoke so, all you risked in this. I have been thinking while you were
with him, and I see it now.”

“I don’t think there was ever any real risk of trouble. I had his
promise from the outset to do all he could for me; and of course there
were other reasons.”

“No risk, you say, after the conduct of that awful man whom poor old
Chris attacked?”

“Ah, poor old dog. How we shall miss him. Yet he could not have given
his life for a better cause. If we ever come back to Belgrade, I’ll
have a reckoning with that bully.”

She noticed that “we.” She glanced sharply at me, and appeared as if to
be going to speak of it, but stopped. “What has occurred at the Palace?”

“The news is about as black as it can be;” and I told her all that
Petrosch had said to me. I was relieved to see that although she was
deeply and indeed intensely affected, her grief was less poignant than
before. Finding this, I dwelt with emphasis upon the position of the
Queen’s sisters; until she understood my purpose.

“You are speaking of what you think will be my lot,” she said.

“Yes. I don’t wish to alarm you, but I know that that is what will be
done--with this difference: that if the opposition to the army takes
any active form, your danger will be greater even than theirs.”

“I am not afraid.”

“No one thinks that; and I should be the last to think it.”

“It is my duty to remain at whatever risk.” She was very firm, very
dignified, very much the Princess as she said this.

“Do you wish the Throne?”

“Do you mean am I ambitious to rule? No, no, a thousand times no. I am
not fit for it. I am more a woman than a Princess; but I cannot think
of myself.”

“If you could think of yourself what would you do?”

“Why put idle questions?”

“Is it altogether idle? As a woman, you are barred from the succession
by yourself. Even if your claims were admitted, you would have to marry
someone who as your husband would be accepted by the nation as King;
but he, not you, would be the ruler--even if the army were not bent
upon changing the dynasty and had not already chosen their King.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Colonel Petrosch has told me;” and I repeated the message he had
authorised me to deliver.

“He told you to tell me that?”

“Yes, expressly and authoritatively.”

“Why?”

“I think that you should see quite clearly the wisdom of adopting the
course which will help the army leaders and so serve the country.”

“You mean that I should play coward and run away. He set you to tempt
me?”

“Is it a temptation?”

She thought earnestly and then exclaimed; “I cannot go. I cannot.”

It was not now “I will not;” and I was glad to note the difference.

“If you could think of yourself what would you do?” I asked again.

“I answer as I did just now--why put that idle question to me?”

I paused and then plunged.

“Because--I love you, Gatrina.”

“No, no, no; any answer but that; give any reason but that,” she
cried, as the red flushed into her cheeks till they flamed, and she
sank back in her seat and hid them from me with her trembling hands.

I knelt by her side.

“It is the truth, Gatrina; why should I not say it? Once before our
hearts spoke. You remember that day on the hill at Samac. We knew it
then; what need to hide it now? It is all in all to me. What is it to
you?”

“No, no, no,” she murmured hurriedly. She was trembling violently. “It
is impossible. It is impossible. I told you then.”

“That is just what it is not now, whatever it may have seemed then. It
is true I am only a----”

“Hsh!” Just a whisper and a hand laid impulsively upon mine, and a
glance of reproach from tender, loving eyes.

I closed my hand on hers and held it.

“Well, only Bourgwan then,” I said, and she smiled. “If you could think
for yourself....” I began again.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t tempt me. You make it so hard for me.”

“It must be as you decide,” I pleaded. “But the world holds no other
woman for me than you.”

At that she started, drew her hand away quickly, and bit her lip. “I
had forgotten,” she murmured.

I read her thought. It was of Elma’s lie. “In that you did me grave
wrong. I had no thought but for you in coming here; and none in
staying. You might have trusted me after that day at Samac.”

“I did not mistrust you. I thought only of your----” she hesitated in
sudden embarrassment.

“Let all be clear now between us, Gatrina. We may never meet again or
we may never part again--as you decide it. The stake is too great for
us to risk it all for the lack of plain words. I know what is in your
thoughts; but on my honour it was never for an instant in mine, and
never could be. Do believe that.”

“I thought you felt it would be impossible for us--oh, it is so
difficult.”

“Then put your hand in mine again and I shall know the slander is
understood.”

“It is still impossible, Bourgwan,” she whispered. “I am so sorry;” and
as is in pity for the pain I must feel she gave me her hand again.

“If you could think for yourself only?”

“God knows I would so gladly do as you wish.”

It was sweet but yet sad hearing.

“I do wish it and do press it, not for my sake only but for yours,” I
urged.

“I cannot, Bourgwan; I cannot leave my country.”

“That is final?” I asked, looking into her eyes.

“You make it so hard for me. I cannot. I cannot.”

I lifted her hand and pressed my lips to it. I had failed; and with
a heavy sigh rose and went back to my seat, with a feeling of blank
desolateness.

“I have grieved you,” she said gently when I had sat silent some while.
“And you have done so much for----”

“Not that, please,” I interposed, forcing a smile.

“I can never forget it,” she replied. “We shall not meet again, as you
said; but I can never forget it.”

“May I ask one thing? If matters go with you so that you should ever
have to leave the country, may I seek you again?”

“It is all sad for you--and for me, too, you know that--but it is
kinder, if harder, not to give you groundless hope.”

“I shall never cease to hope.”

“I shall never leave my country,” she answered, earnestly.

“I am answered, but not convinced,” I replied, in quite as earnest a
tone as hers; and then, to lighten the strain, I smiled and added: “If
you will not leave it, I may have to leave mine and turn Serb.”

“I should have at least one loyal subject then, I am sure.”

As the words left her lips, the door opened and Colonel Petrosch
returned.




CHAPTER XXIX.

PETROSCH HAS A PLAN.


A single glance at Colonel Petrosch convinced me that some change had
taken place in the situation during his absence which he considered
favourable. His step was less heavy; the air of oppressed anxiousness
was gone; his face had lost that depressed, care-haunted, apprehensive
look which I had seen before; and his bearing was almost confident and
bright.

He went at once to the matter in hand.

“I am glad to tell you you are free to leave, Mr. Bergwyn,” he said,
with obvious satisfaction.

“I am deeply obliged to you for your intervention, Colonel.”

“Shew it by leaving Belgrade by the first available train and remaining
away for some days at least until matters have settled. Then we shall
be ready to receive you.”

“You have had news which you consider good?” I asked.

“Yes. I think the best we could have. There is now no room for
reasonable doubt that the people will not only support the army’s
action, but will do so with enthusiasm. The news is known everywhere
now, and reports from all over the city from all classes are to this
effect. Every minute brings added proof of this. It is an intense and
consummate relief.”

“It is consummate shame and scandal that murder should be thus hailed
with acclamation,” cried Gatrina, indignantly.

“Those will be dangerous views to express to-day, madam,” said
Petrosch, turning to her. “You and I must of necessity look upon this
revolution with very different feelings. What to you appears murder, I
and those with me regard as the only gate to national liberty which was
left open to us.”

“Mr. Bergwyn has told me that many murders have been committed in the
night. There will be a heavy reckoning for each of them.”

“Lives have been taken, it is true, because, as we believe, no other
course was left, if a violent revolution, followed by the horrors of
a civil war, was to be avoided. Better for half a dozen lives to be
taken deliberately than as many thousands in a civil war. What we have
done we have done; and we leave the issue to God. The future will judge
whether we have done right.”

“Cold blooded murder cannot be justified by an appeal to the Almighty,”
said Gatrina, indignantly. “Who draws the sword himself shall feel the
blade. You may seem to be successful; the people may shout for you and
applaud you because you are strong; you may for the time carry all
before you with a powerful hand; but by this fearsome appeal to blood
you have raised a force which will crush you in the end with infinite
disaster to the country.”

Colonel Petrosch listened with pent brows, and replied with impressive
deliberation. “I am disturbed to hear this from you, madam, and it
compels me to put to you a question which I beg you to answer with
due regard to the solemn consequences which your words may have for
yourself. Do I understand you to mean that you yourself would take part
in any movement or plans which might be made against the army and its
decisions, and for the restoration of your family upon the throne?”

“No, no, indeed. God forbid that for any mere personal ends either word
or act of mine should ever tend to plunge the country into the horrors
of such a conflict.”

Alarmed by his sudden change to severity, I was greatly relieved to
hear Gatrina’s words. So I think was he. He looked across to me.

“Have you told the Princess what I said to you before, Mr. Bergwyn?”

“Yes; but she does not see her way to leave the country.”

“Voluntarily, you mean? But you cannot remain, madam,” he said to her.
“It is absolutely impossible.”

“I will not leave, Colonel Petrosch.”

He sighed. “I regret exceedingly to hear that unfortunate decision and
trust you will recall it. I am authorised to tell you that if you will
sign a document abandoning all claim to the succession and leave the
country voluntarily, your property and fortune shall not be forfeit.”

“I shall not change my decision for a bribe, Colonel Petrosch,” she
answered instantly and proudly.

“It is not meant as a bribe; but your presence will be an embarrassment
to the new Government, and in any case you must go. Must: it is
imperative. Pray think, then, before you set the Government at
defiance.”

“I have given my decision, and nothing will alter it, Colonel Petrosch.”

“That is your last word?”

“On that point, my last word.”

“I regret it deeply. I have now no option but to tell you that you
will be a prisoner. I can, at any rate for the present, spare you the
harassment of being removed from your own house. But the house is in
possession of our troops and I must ask you to remain in your own
apartments, pending our decision in regard to your movements.”

“I shall make no attempt to run away,” said Gatrina, getting up as she
spoke.

“Wait,” I broke in. “I should like to put a question or two.”

Petrosch turned upon me an inscrutable look and replied with a shew
of sternness: “You can do nothing to influence our decision in such a
matter, Mr. Bergwyn. The Princess has refused our offer. That is all.”

“I don’t think so,” I answered, bluntly. “Are we to understand that the
Princess is in any danger from the acts of your agents? We have seen
already what some of them are capable of doing.”

“I am glad to be able to give an assurance that ample precautions will
be taken for the Princess’s personal safety during the few hours she
will remain here. If you will take counsel from me, madam, I would
urge you to lose no time in preparing for your departure. We shall
decide very quickly. I will now call the guard;” and he left the room.

I turned to Gatrina and impulsively she put both her hands in mine and
lifted her face and smiled.

“Good-bye,” she murmured, her lips quivering.

“I wish you could have done as he asked.”

“I wish I could--for your sake; but ...” she shook her head. “You have
done so much for me. I can see your hand in all this.”

“Give it up, Gatrina, for my sake,” I cried, passionately, the love in
me breaking all bounds. “You would trust yourself to me?”

“Ah, yes, gladly, if I could but be a coward. I should be a happy
coward, Bourgwan; but....”

“I cannot lose you. My God, I will not.”

“Please, please be strong enough for us both. I am so weak when I think
of you: of all that I am losing. But--I must stay. You know that in
your heart. I must be true to my duty. For Heaven’s sake help to save
me from my weakness.”

“I cannot lose you,” I cried again.

“No, no. Leave it me to think of you as always doing the right thing. I
want my memory of you undimmed. It must be good-bye. It must.”

“I cannot say it.”

“There is no other word to say, Bourgwan. No other word. Do you know
how hard you are making this for me?” she added gently after a pause.

I caught her and held her passionately.

“You love me?”

Again she raised her face, now close to mine, and gazed into my eyes
frankly.

“If I did not, should I care?” she whispered.

Slowly I bent my head till my lips touched hers, and as they met she
yielded to me and kissed me in return, and then let her head rest on my
shoulder.

“Oh, how you make me wish I were a coward,” she murmured. “It is harder
than ever; but it must be good-bye.”

Gently she drew away and put her hands in mine as before.

“We must never meet again, Bourgwan,” she said, with one of her sweet
smiles. “You tempt me so. I could not trust myself again.”

“God keep you, Gatrina. Good-bye;” and I pressed my lips to her hand
and then led her to the door.

“It is even harder than the day at Samac,” she whispered, smiling
again; and with those words and a last long look she passed out, and I
was alone in the room--alone for always.

I was staring desolately out into the garden when Colonel Petrosch came
back.

“I thought perhaps you might wish to say a word or two to the Princess,
Mr. Bergwyn; and now I want to speak to you.”

“Yes; what is it?” I answered, indifferently. Nothing mattered now.
What he said or didn’t say was all one to me.

“I am going to ask you for your confidence.”

“Well?”

“About the--the Princess.”

“Except to know that she will be safe, I would rather not speak of
her,” I answered, abruptly.

“I have heard the story that you met her when you were in the Bosnian
hills under circumstances....”

But I wasn’t having that and cut him short pretty brusquely.

“I should regard any question on such a subject as verging upon
impertinence, Colonel Petrosch. Please ask none.”

He smiled. “That is very much like confirmation. You must not lose your
temper with me. I am an old man, you a young one, and I want to help
you. If the Princess had been other than....”

“Stop right there, if you please,” I cried, angrily.

But he only smiled. “Well, I’ll put it another way. The Princess is a
very obstinate young woman and----”

“The Princess has decided rightly, Colonel Petrosch.”

“And the result of her decision is that in a few hours she will be
sorely in need of a friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“May I speak plainly what’s in my mind--what was in it when I went out
of the room just now?”

“Yes,” I returned after a pause. “Have I been a fool?”

He did not answer that question in direct terms; but he spoke very
plainly, and what he said answered it indirectly. We had a brief but
very pithy conversation; and at the end of it I got up and shook
his hand effusively and “God blessed him,” bade him good-bye, and
scampered off to my house more like a school-boy than a man of many
cares, and with no longer any thought of the prospect of desolate
loneliness which had appeared to threaten me so gloomily only a few
minutes before.

As I passed through the streets there were already abundant signs of
the popular feeling. Early though the hour was, flags were flying,
decorations being hurriedly prepared, men and women were abroad gaily
dressed, and everyone getting ready to join in what was clearly to be a
public holiday.

Death and terror had had their grim reign in the frowning gloom of
the night; but the scene had shifted with the daylight. The Army were
hailed as the deliverers of the people; the tragic means were condoned
for the sake of the end attained; and on all sides the people were
making haste to parade the evidences of satisfaction at the change and
gratitude to those who had wrought it.

How much of the demonstration was genuine, how far it was wire-pulled,
or to what extent it was dictated by that prudence which impels the
crowd to side with the strongest I did not stop to think. It was enough
that the city would side with the Army and that its leaders would
therefore go on with their work undisturbed by fears of turbulence and
resistance. That meant much to me just then.

I found my servants vastly uneasy at my absence during the night. Even
the placid Buller was excited.

“Thank God you have come, sir. We dursen’t go to bed. We didn’t know
what to think or do.”

“I daresay you didn’t, but get a hustle on you now and pack up. I’m
leaving in a couple of hours and want my light baggage with me. Pick
out enough for a few days; and express all the heavy trunks to Vienna.”

“Thank God, sir,” he exclaimed, fervently.

“Well, get going then--you’ll have time for thanksgiving on the cars,”
I said, as he hesitated. “And tell someone to get me some breakfast.”

I dashed into my bedroom, had a bath and changed out of Nikolitch’s
uniform--which was a good deal the worse for the night’s wear--had my
breakfast, establishing probably an American record for eating speed,
and sat down to knock off the cables and letters which my hurried
departure necessitated.

I was deep in one to Nikolitch explaining things and telling him I had
made all excuses for him with Petrosch, when Karasch arrived.

“I hardly hoped to find you----” he began.

“You must shelve all that, Karasch,” I interposed. “You’ve got to leave
the city with me in less than an hour from now; and see here, take
money to pay those men liberally for what they did last night and tell
them they’d better hold their tongues and skip for a while. You must be
at the depot in an hour ready to go.”

“Are you....”

“Don’t ask a question now. All has gone right. Be off with you,” and I
got up and opened the door to hustle him off. As I did so, Elma was in
the hall, and Buller was protesting that I could not receive her.

At sight of me she pushed past him and came into my room. She was as
full of agitation as a setting hen over her first chick; and when
she saw from my face that I was in high spirits her astonishment was
boundless.

“I’m leaving,” I said, pithily.

“Running away?” she exclaimed.

“That’s about the size of it. Can I do anything for you in Vienna?” I
had no anger left for her, or indeed for anyone.

“You have heard the news?”

“Some.”

“About the murders last night?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to run away while she is in danger?”

“Who?”

“Who?” she repeated with a scoff. “Gatrina, I mean, of course.”

“I don’t know that she’s in any particular peril. I called there last
night.”

“How can you speak so lightly as that? She must be saved at any cost.
I’ve come to offer to help you save her.”

“From what?”

“Death,” she said, with tragic earnestness.

“What can one do? The army is all powerful. I must think of myself.”

“Good God, are you such a coward?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “A man must think of his own life. I’ve no
fancy to risk mine.”

Her face was a study in contempt. “You mean you will not attempt to
save her?”

“I tell you I’m bolting. I don’t suppose her fate will be anything very
terrible, and perhaps after all she deserves it. Anyway, I shall not
think of opposing the army in the matter.”

She drew her breath quickly and looked at me with almost fierce
disdain. “You coward! Oh, you coward,” she cried.

“I suppose it isn’t very brave. But then I never set up for a hero.”

“But if I tell you that I know her death has been decided upon and that
if you will help, we can save her?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference to me. You see I’m packed up, and even
my train is chosen. I simply can’t stop. Besides, I expect you’ve been
misinformed.”

“I tell you I know it,” she cried, fiercely, as if seeking to rouse me.

“Then I’m afraid the bottom will be knocked out of your marriage scheme
in regard to her. Still, I daresay you’ll hatch another.”

This was the limit. She fell back a pace, stared at me aghast, and
then broke out into a violent tirade of denunciation and abuse of my
cowardice and generally contemptible conduct.

“Now, let me say half a dozen plain words, Baroness,” I replied, when
she paused for lack of breath. “During the last days I have been here
you have done your utmost against me; every weapon you could find you
have used without scruple to try and ruin me. You failed every time;
and now you come with some other plan in that subtle and beautiful
head of yours to try and lure me into a last net. For the time I came
very near to fearing you; I don’t like saying ugly things to a woman;
and I’ll just content myself with the confession that I no longer fear
anything you can do, and pay no heed whatever to anything you can say.
That’s all. And now, as I’m busy getting ready to run away, as you call
it, I must ask you to excuse me.”

“You have some other scheme?” she cried.

“You can put it that I’m running away; and leave it at that.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“That’s not polite, to say the least of it.” I rang the bell. “Buller,
have you packed up yet?” I asked when he came.

“Yes, sir.”

“And directed that the heavy luggage is expressed through to Vienna?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the carriage?”

“Yes, sir. It will be at the door in a quarter of an hour, sir.”

“That will do. You hear that?” I asked Elma.

She made a gesture of angry impatience. “I can’t understand you.”

“It means good-bye, Baroness. I have still some letters to finish and
arrangements to complete, and have, as you hear, only fifteen minutes.
I part without any anger;” and I held out my hand.

“I will save Gatrina without you,” she exclaimed, not taking my hand.

“I don’t think anyone can do that, but it’s very good of you to try,” I
replied with a conventional smile.

This appeared to kindle all her rage again to white heat. She stared at
me a moment, then raised her arms above her head and with a passionate
ejaculation of disgust, swept out of the room.

Her complete mystification and indignant wrath gave me intense
satisfaction, and with a chuckle of enjoyment I sat down again and
finished my letters just in time to drive hurriedly to the depot and
catch my train.

But I did not take tickets for Vienna, for that was not my destination.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE CAMP AGAIN.


Buller’s patience and respectful stolidity were sorely strained that
day. In the first place I told him nothing about our destination; and
when we made several changes during the journey only to alight at the
exceedingly unpromising depot at Samac in the afternoon, his manner
began to afford me genuine amusement.

“Do we wait here long for the train, sir?” he asked, as if the sooner
we were off again the better.

“Only until Karasch can get a carriage or some horses, Buller. I
suppose you can ride, by the by?”

“Yes, sir; that is--oh, yes, sir--a little.”

Karasch got four horses after some difficulty but no carriage; one to
carry my valises. They were four rank bad animals; but they carried
us to Poabja, albeit with much discomfort for Buller. But his disgust
appeared to reach a climax when he saw the little inn and I told him it
was our hotel.

“That, sir?” he exclaimed incredulously, with a very wry face.

“They have some excellent black bread there, Buller, and the water is
as fine as any in the district.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied mechanically, as he got off his horse awkwardly.
He was very stiff and discomfited. “Beg pardon, sir, but do we stay
long here?” he asked, dejectedly.

“Not more than a month or two--till we start to rough it in the hills.”

He groaned and his face fell so that I laughed, and to hide it
dismounted and told him to go into the house and make such arrangements
as he could for our accommodation, without mentioning my name. “Be very
guarded, Buller, for much hangs upon your discretion, and I don’t want
our lives to be imperilled by any loose talk.”

Then I walked away up the narrow hilly street, whistling. I was in such
spirits that I could not resist the temptation of playing this small
joke upon my superlatively proper and decorous servant. In my humour,
the veriest trifle set me smiling, the minutest detail of life in the
little place interested me.

The children came out to stare at me and I scattered some small coins
among them and brought them about me in a scrambling, laughing,
boisterous crowd. Some of the men recognised me; and I stopped now and
again to exchange a word or two with them and gave them money. The
whole of the little street was full of smiling faces and I had such a
body guard when I reached Father Michel’s cottage, that the good priest
came out in some surprise to learn the cause of the clatter.

“I need your protection again, father,” I cried cheerily; “but from a
different sort of crowd this time. Let me come in and talk to you, and
send these young brigands away. They take _me_ for the witch this time
with a power to coin money.”

“I bid you welcome, sir,” he said gravely as he bade the youngsters
run home and led me indoors.

I was closeted with him for an hour or more, telling him many things
which vastly surprised him, gaining his help for the purpose I had in
view, preparing him for what was coming, and binding him to secresy
until the time arrived for all to be explained.

When I got back to the inn Karasch, as the result of my instructions
had a carriage ready, and Buller looking very glum and very much out of
his element was standing by a saddle horse for me.

“You can go on, Karasch, I shall overtake you,” I said, and he drove
off.

“Am I not to go, sir?” asked Buller, nervously.

“No, Buller, thank you. You stay here. And mind, don’t get quarrelling;
these people are very good-natured, but very handy with the knife.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but how long am I to stay here alone?”

“You’re not frightened, are you?”

“No, I hope not, sir, but if anything’s likely to happen--to you, sir,
I mean I’d like to know of it, in case I could help.”

“I think I’ve done you some injustice, Buller, and I’m sorry.” I was
pleased by his words. “Nothing will happen--nothing dangerous that is.
All is as right as it could be. I’ve come here for a special purpose;
and we shall all be away to-morrow or very soon after, for Vienna I
expect. All you need do is--to amuse yourself for an hour or two. If
you go out, walk down the hill and not up; I don’t want you to be seen
up that way. I shall be back soon after dark; and you can hunt around
and get me the best thing in the way of dinner you can contrive.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said in a tone of obvious relief; and stepped
back, as I mounted and rode after Karasch on the road back to the
station at Samac.

“All you’ve got to be careful about, Karasch,” I told him when we
reached there; “is not to let your face be seen. It’s quite dark, so
there’s very little risk.”

I tethered my horse out of sight and walked up the little hill where
Gatrina and I had had our talk that day, and waited there, thinking
of her and of much that had passed since we had parted there, and she
had sent poor old Chris back to me. The picture was very vivid in my
thoughts; her retreating figure on the winding path, and the old dog
coming slowly up the path toward me and turning to look after her; when
the reverie was broken by the noise of the coming train, and I hurried
down the hill back to the station.

I found a spot where I could get close enough to observe what occurred
without being seen.

The last car was a saloon from which three men in the uniform of
officers alighted. One of them turned and helped out a lady, a somewhat
portly person who appeared to be stiff and cramped with a long journey.
Then without assistance another lady stepped out and looked about her
as if recognising the place.

All five passed through the station house, and one of the men spoke
to Karasch, who murmured some reply and touched his hat. Four of them
entered the carriage and the fifth got up by Karasch who then drove
off.

The station master and his assistants stood looking after the carriage
and gossipping with three peasants and a woman, the only other
passengers by the train; and were still discussing the possible meaning
of the unusual event as I mounted and rode away.

I kept well behind but I was near enough to the carriage when it
reached the priest’s house to see him come out, exchange a few words
with the officers, and then lead someone into the house. He returned
and spoke again to the officers, all three of whom entered the carriage
which passed me directly afterwards on the return to Samac.

I rode on to the inn, and having an hour to wait, I filled up the time
by changing my clothes and eating the dinner which Buller had had
prepared. I was in a condition of intense nervous excitement, and kept
glancing at my watch wishing the time to pass, impatient of the delay.
I was intensely absorbed by the thought of what was to follow, and yet
curiously conscious of Buller’s consequential pride at having provided
so good a meal under such circumstances and profound disappointment at
my failure to be impressed by his cleverness.

At last the time was up and I started for the priest’s house, followed
by a look of blank dismay from Buller because I left before his chief
dish was served. I was half way up the street when the reason of his
look flashed upon me, and I burst out laughing.

Someone was waiting for me in the priest’s garden and fetched him
immediately.

“She is very sad and depressed, but she asked to be brought to me, it
seems. She is in there;” and he pointed to a door which stood ajar.

I pushed it open and entered.

She was sitting with her back to the door in a very dejected attitude,
and thinking it was Father Michel who had returned, she did not look
round, but said, as I closed the door:

“You have many calls on your time.”

“Well, I’ve been pretty busy during the last week,” I answered.

She jumped up at the sound of my voice and turned to me a face pale
for a fleeting second and then flushing with the glory of rich, deep
crimson.

“Bourgwan!”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, Bourgwan, no other;” and I stretched my hands to
her.

She held hers back and tried to look indignant.

“What does this mean?”

“You must blame Petrosch. He’s the villain of the piece.”

Despite her efforts her eyes smiled.

“This is a conspiracy, then,” she cried.

“That’s about the size of it. They’ve been pretty plentiful lately, you
see.”

“I had no idea....”

“That was the conspiracy, of course,” I broke in. “He’s a subtle
villain, Petrosch. I was a mere child in his hands.”

The smile was spreading very fast all over her face now.

“I ought to be very angry,” she exclaimed.

“Yes, he’s broken up all my plans shamefully. Instead of being in
Vienna on my way back to the States, here I am, just Bourgwan again,
and you’re just Mademoiselle. And goodness knows now what’s going to
happen.”

We both laughed then and she no longer held back her hands. I held them
instead.

“I don’t understand yet in the least.”

“Well, you see it was like this. I thought you would rather that Father
Michel than any other priest should----”

“Bourgwan!” she cried, quickly.

“Wasn’t that right?” I asked, with an air of innocence.

“Do you mean that Colonel Petrosch....”

“Yes. He’s a dreadful scoundrel to guess things.”

“Do you know that I am a beggar and an exile?”

“Yes, indeed. He told me all about it; and I was awfully glad. There’s
another country over seas which will be glad to adopt you. It’s a free
country, too; with a home in it where we shan’t be quite beggars.”

“Bourgwan! I told you it was impossible.”

“And I told you that we’re forgetting how to spell that word in the
States; although I came near learning it in Belgrade.”

“But I--I have nothing.”

“Oh yes, you have. You can draw a bill on the bank of my affection and
I’ll honour it right now--to any amount.”

“You make a jest of it,” she said, now between laughter and tears.

“Well, don’t you think they made things serious enough for us in
Belgrade? What you’ve got to do is just to forget all that, and to
laugh and be glad--if you are glad; and then to--well, there _is_
something else to do;” and I looked grave.

“What is that?”

“It’s a very serious thing, very serious, indeed. But I think I ought
to tell you, and I think you ought to do it if your laughter is to ring
true.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Yes, quite. Did you know that when we were here before there was a
man very badly wounded--desperately, in fact. I was speaking to Father
Michel to-day about it and I told him I was sure you would not like to
have such a thing on your conscience without doing all you could to
help him. That was right, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. Was it that struggle in the street here?”

“No, the man doesn’t belong to Poabja; but he was here to-day. The poor
fellow will never get over the wound. And he blames you, and feels that
you alone can save him.”

“Wound? Blames me? What can I do?”

“Marry him.”

“Bourgwan!” she cried, changing on the instant from puzzled pity to
laughing confusion; and then--well, no matter what then.

Soon afterwards we sat down together and had a good, square talk which
did not end until she had agreed that we had better consult Father
Michel about the details.

I was a happier man than ever when, after a very informal little
ceremony in Father Michel’s quaint, crude church very early in the
morning, we started to indulge a mutual wish to have a last look at the
camp which had been so much to us.

What a ride that was! What memories it roused! How delighted was
Gatrina with everything! And in what spirits! How we chattered and
laughed, and laughed and chattered, forgetting for the time, selfishly
if you will in our own happiness, the gloom and tragedy from which we
had just emerged. The world appeared all bright and glorious for us,
and care and trouble far away.

Karasch was with us, of course; solemn, reserved and taciturn as ever;
but breaking into a sort of grim smile whenever Gatrina spoke to him to
point out some bit of the road where some incident of that other ride
had occurred.

Buller I packed off to Samac to go by rail and meet us afterwards at a
place to which we could get the train from Tuzla on the other side of
the camp. He did not belong to our hill comradeship and would have been
in the way.

We were careful to have a guide this time; and how we laughed now when
he told us we must have come at least ten or fifteen miles out of our
way during that comradeship ride of ours by the compass. We could laugh
at anything.

We turned aside to visit the hill where we had slept on the morning
after the check by the two rivers, and Gatrina recognised with a
positive relish the spot where she had washed on the brink of the
stream.

And when at last we came near the long, stiff hill in the middle of
which was the ravine leading to the camp, her excitement and pleasure
were greater than ever. We chattered just like two glad children, first
about the incidents of her flight and rescue, and then about that
little contest of wills we had had the following morning, and indeed
about every incident of the time at the camp.

Then came the camp itself, and Gatrina’s unbounded surprise that
already men were there getting ready for the mining work. I told her
what I had done in Vienna and that in the superintendent we might look
to find our old enemy, Captain Hanske, the Austrian official with whom
we had taken such rough liberties that memorable night.

We could stay but an hour there if we were to reach Tuzla before
nightfall, the guide told us; and Gatrina and I spent the first few
minutes in the little hut which she had occupied.

It was a place full of mingled reminiscences for us; and while we were
there our thoughts slipped back to the moment when, as I knew and my
sweet wife now confessed, we had fallen in love.

“I think I knew it first,” she said, with a winsome blush, “when we
came back here alone after that trial of will, Bourgwan. You were very
obstinate; but I--I--I won’t tell you any more.”

“I knew it before that; when you stood at bay against those scoundrels
out on the hills there. But you must have thought me an awful
scarecrow.”

“I did think you were a peasant, when I knew you were not a brigand.
And when I found out my mistake, I could have bitten out my tongue for
the way I had spoken to you.”

“I was a brigand. I stole your heart.”

She looked up with a bright, merry smile and was about to answer when
some noise and confusion outside startled her.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Quite realistic--like it used to be. We’ll see.”

We went out and I laughed aloud at what we saw. Karasch had been seized
by a couple of men who were leading him towards us while the little
Austrian ex-official, now the superintendent, was abusing him volubly
and with almost frantic gesticulations.

He was a sharp fellow and the instant his eyes fell on us he recognised
us, and calling some more men from the tent, he ran toward me shouting,
“Here’s the other man. So we meet at last, eh? And you, too?” he cried
to Gatrina, who was inclined to be frightened and held my arm tight.

“You have good eyes and a keen memory for faces, Captain Hanske. I
congratulate you. We only met in the dark and I see you recognise us.”

“Ah, you admit it, you admit it, do you?” he said, very excitedly. “Now
I’ll shew you what it is to assault me, and I’ll know who you are and
all about you.”

“There isn’t the least doubt about that. But don’t be excited. I am Mr.
Bergwyn, the American, associated with Graf von Hartstein of Vienna in
working the mines here. I told him how I had treated you that night
and as a recompense had you appointed here.”

His jaw dropped as he gazed at me in amazement.

The silence was broken by a laugh, deep, raucous and loud, from
Karasch--the only loud laugh I ever heard from him.

“It’s all right, superintendent,” I added. “I can understand your
bewilderment and your mistake. Tell me how the work promises. Let
Karasch there go.”

“Mr. Bergwyn,” he stammered, “I am--I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t try. We’ve had enough of it. Just show the things.”

He was a very humble and bewildered superintendent then, and so ashamed
that Gatrina spoke to him to try and put him at his ease while he
shewed us about the place until the guide sent word that we must start.

We were standing in the tent then and were alone.

“This is where you had the fight with Karasch, Bourgwan, and his arm
was broken, isn’t it?”

“Yes, when Chris, the other member of the comradeship was on guard with
you.”

“Dear old Chris,” she replied. “I am so sorry.”

“Something else happened here beside that fight.”

“What was that?”

“You told me just now when you think you--knew. Well, it was here I
first hoped.”

“Hoped?” she cried, her face wrinkling and her eyes questioning.

“Yes, hoped. You remember I lay here after that blow on the head.”

“Yes, there;” and she pointed to the very spot.

“Someone watched by me here, when I was unconscious.”

She began to understand.

“You mean Chris?” she asked with an air of unconcern.

“No; I mean I wasn’t unconscious quite so long as you thought and
you----”

“Bourgwan! The guide says we must go,” she cried quickly, with a lovely
blush.

“And when you did, I began to hope.”

“We mustn’t keep him any longer.”

“I think he could wait while you--do it again.”

But she laughed and tossed her head and walked out of the tent.

As we crossed to the horses, she said: “I don’t know what you must have
thought.”

“I thought you might do it again so I remained unconscious.”

As I put her on her horse, she whispered: “I was going to, but Karasch
came;” and then shook the reins and started.

I caught her up a moment afterwards and by a mutual impulse we turned
and had a last look. It was a wild, meagre, rough, dirty and abominably
squalid place--but very dear to us.

“Good-bye, old comradeship camp,” said Gatrina, smiling, with a tear in
close attendance, I think. “It might be lovelier,” she added, “but it
couldn’t be dearer in my thoughts.”

“Nor in mine--for it gave me you.”

“And me my Bourgwan--I may well love it.”

We sat on the horses just gazing back, both heart full, until the
silence was broken by a shout from the now impatient guide; and we
wheeled about and hurried after him.




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  The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread
  of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning
  those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people,
  is never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who
  spared neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this
  charming love story all that price in blood and tears which the
  Carolinians paid as their share in the winning of the republic.

  Take it all in all, “Horseshoe Robinson” is a work which should be
  found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining
  story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning
  the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once
  more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to
  thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story
  again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to
  procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.


=THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND.= A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

  Written prior to 1862, the “Pearl of Orr’s Island” is ever new; a
  book filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves
  anew each time one reads them. One sees the “sea like an unbroken
  mirror all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr’s Island,” and
  straightway comes “the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach,
  like the wild angry howl of some savage animal.”

  Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which
  came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel’s
  wings, without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud
  blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the
  character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid
  the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.

  There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
  which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”


=DARNLEY.= A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey.
By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo, with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  In point of publication, “Darnley” is that work by Mr. James which
  follows “Richelieu,” and, if rumor can be credited, it was owing
  to the advice and insistence of our own Washington Irving that we
  are indebted primarily for the story, the young author questioning
  whether he could properly paint the difference in the characters of
  the two great cardinals. And it is not surprising that James should
  have hesitated; he had been eminently successful in giving to the
  world the portrait of Richelieu as a man, and by attempting a similar
  task with Wolsey as the theme, was much like tempting fortune. Irving
  insisted that “Darnley” came naturally in sequence, and this opinion
  being supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author set about the work.

  As a historical romance “Darnley” is a book that can be taken up
  pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm
  which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have
  claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.

  If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial
  attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic
  “field of the cloth of gold” would entitle the story to the most
  favorable consideration of every reader.

  There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author
  has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom
  history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one
  for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world
  must love.


=CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE.= By Lieut. Henry A. Wise, U.
S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea
  yarns who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can
  come through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of
  the sea and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more
  familiar with the scenes depicted.

  The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and
  which will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain
  Brand,” who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate
  of eminence in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple,
  “Captain Brand” has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical
  life, told without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it
  has no equal.


=NICK OF THE WOODS.= A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By
Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
  Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long
  out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic
  presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of
  settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of
  a practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the
  story. This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be
  certain to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr.
  Bird’s clever and versatile pen.


=A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE.= A story of American Colonial Times. By
Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary
  scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the
  true American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after
  chapter, until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism.
  The love story is a singularly charming idyl.


=THE TOWER OF LONDON.= A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane
Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four
illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

  This romance of the “Tower of London” depicts the Tower as palace,
  prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is
  the middle of the sixteenth century.

  The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey,
  and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable
  characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of
  the reader. In the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending
  considerably over a half a century.


=IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.= A Romance of the American Revolution. By
Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery,
  and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit
  of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves
  taking a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so
  absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a
  love romance it is charming.


=GARTHOWEN.= A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  “This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare
  before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some
  strong points of Welsh character--the pride, the hasty temper, the
  quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story,
  interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another
  life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village
  life. The result is excellent.”--Detroit Free Press.


=MIFANWY.= The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  “This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to
  read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters,
  it is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had
  known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story
  is worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows
  wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are
  introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination.”--Boston
  Herald.


=GUY FAWKES.= A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison
Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.
Price, $1.00.

  The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the
  King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England,
  was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of
  extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics.
  In their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold
  spirits concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters
  were arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other
  prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through
  the entire romance.


=THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER.= A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.”
  The main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian
  missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given
  details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the
  wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,
  as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and
  at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent
  their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in
  comparative security.

  Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village
  of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description.
  The efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never
  have been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the
  leaders of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself
  will be of interest to the student.

  By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
  word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
  of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.

  It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
  it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
  braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
  star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
  simple and tender, runs through the book.


=RICHELIEU.= A tale of France In the reign of King Louis XIII. By G.
P. E. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, “Richelieu,” and was
  recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.

  In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
  cardinal’s life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while
  it was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic
  outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost
  wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story
  is that of Cinq Mar’s conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal
  cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites,
  affording a better insight into the statecraft of that day than can
  be had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful
  romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and
  absorbing interest has never been excelled.


For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.




_POPULAR LITERATURE FOR THE MASSES, COMPRISING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM
THE TREASURES OF THE WORLD’S KNOWLEDGE, ISSUED IN A SUBSTANTIAL AND
ATTRACTIVE CLOTH BINDING, AT A POPULAR PRICE_


BURT’S HOME LIBRARY is a series which includes the standard works of
the world’s best literature, bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops,
embracing chiefly selections from writers of the most notable English,
American and Foreign Fiction, together with many important works in
the domains of History, Biography, Philosophy, Travel, Poetry and the
Essays.

[Illustration]

A glance at the following annexed list of titles and authors will
endorse the claim that the publishers make for it--that it is the most
comprehensive, choice, interesting, and by far the most carefully
selected series of standard authors for world-wide reading that has
been produced by any publishing house in any country, and that at
prices so cheap, and in a style so substantial and pleasing, as to win
for it millions of readers and the approval and commendation, not only
of the book trade throughout the American continent, but of hundreds
of thousands of librarians, clergymen, educators and men of letters
interested in the dissemination of instructive, entertaining and
thoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses.




BURT’S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00


 =Abbe Constantin.= BY LUDOVIC HALEVY.

 =Abbott.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Adam Bede.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

 =Addison’s Essays.= EDITED BY JOHN RICHARD GREEN.

 =Aeneid of Virgil.= TRANSLATED BY JOHN CONNINGTON.

 =Aesop’s Fables.=

 =Alexander, the Great, Life of.= BY JOHN WILLIAMS.

 =Alfred, the Great, Life of.= BY THOMAS HUGHES.

 =Alhambra.= BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

 =Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-Glass.= BY LEWIS CARROLL.

 =Alice Lorraine.= BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

 =All Sorts and Conditions of Men.= BY WALTER BESANT.

 =Alton Locke.= BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 =Amiel’s Journal.= TRANSLATED BY MRS. HUMPHREY WARD.

 =Andersen’s Fairy Tales.=

 =Anne of Geirstein.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Antiquary.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.=

 =Ardath.= BY MARIE CORELLI.

 =Arnold, Benedict, Life of.= BY GEORGE CANNING HILL.

 =Arnold’s Poems.= BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

 =Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam.= BY MRS. BRASSEY.

 =Arundel Motto.= BY MARY CECIL HAY.

 =At the Back of the North Wind.= BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

 =Attic Philosopher.= BY EMILE SOUVESTRE.

 =Auld Licht Idylls.= BY JAMES M. BARRIE.

 =Aunt Diana.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.=

 =Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.= BY O. W. HOLMES.

 =Averil.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Bacon’s Essays.= BY FRANCIS BACON.

 =Barbara Heathcote’s Trial.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Barnaby Rudge.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Barrack Room Ballads.= BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

 =Betrothed.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Beulah.= BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

 =Black Beauty.= BY ANNA SEWELL.

 =Black Dwarf.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Black Rock.= BY RALPH CONNOR.

 =Black Tulip.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Bleak House.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Blithedale Romance.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 =Bondman.= BY HALL CAINE.

 =Book of Golden Deeds.= BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

 =Boone, Daniel, Life of.= BY CECIL B. HARTLEY.

 =Bride of Lammermoor.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Bride of the Nile.= BY GEORGE EBERS.

 =Browning’s Poems.= BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

 =Browning’s Poems.= (SELECTIONS.) BY ROBERT BROWNING.

 =Bryant’s Poems.= (EARLY.) BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

 =Burgomaster’s Wife.= BY GEORGE EBERS.

 =Burn’s Poems.= BY ROBERT BURNS.

 =By Order of the King.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

 =Byron’s Poems.= BY LORD BYRON.

 =Caesar, Julius, Life of.= BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

 =Carson, Kit, Life of.= BY CHARLES BURDETT.

 =Cary’s Poems.= BY ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.

 =Cast Up by the Sea.= BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER.

 =Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of.= BY THOMAS HODGKIN. D. C. L.

 =Charles Auchester.= BY E. BERGER.

 =Character.= BY SAMUEL SMILES.

 =Charles O’Malley.= BY CHARLES LEVER.

 =Chesterfield’s Letters.= BY LORD CHESTERFIELD.

 =Chevalier de Maison Rouge.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Chicot the Jester.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Children of the Abbey.= BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE.

 =Child’s History of England.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Christmas Stories.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Cloister and the Hearth.= BY CHARLES READE.

 =Coleridge’s Poems.= BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

 =Columbus, Christopher, Life of.= BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

 =Companions of Jehu.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Complete Angler.= BY WALTON AND COTTON.

 =Conduct of Life.= BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

 =Confessions of an Opium Eater.= BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

 =Conquest of Granada.= BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

 =Conscript.= BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.

 =Conspiracy of Pontiac.= BY FRANCIS PARKMAN, JR.

 =Conspirators.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Consuelo.= BY GEORGE SAND.

 =Cook’s Voyages.= BY CAPTAIN JAMES COOK.

 =Corinne.= BY MADAME DE STAHL.

 =Countess de Charney.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Countess Gisela.= BY E. MARLITT.

 =Countess of Rudolstadt.= BY GEORGE SAND.

 =Count Robert of Paris.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Country Doctor.= BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

 =Courtship of Miles Standish.= BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

 =Cousin Maude.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Cranford.= BY MRS. GASKELL.

 =Crockett, David, Life of.= AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

 =Cromwell, Oliver, Life of.= BY EDWIN PAXTON HOOD.

 =Crown of Wild Olive.= BY JOHN RUSKIN.

 =Crusades.= BY GEO. W. COX, M. A.

 =Daniel Deronda.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

 =Darkness and Daylight.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Data of Ethics.= BY HERBERT SPENCER.

 =Daughter of an Empress, The.= BY LOUISA MUHLBACH.

 =David Copperfield.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Days of Bruce.= BY GRACE AGUILAR.

 =Deemster, The.= BY HALL CAINE.

 =Deerslayer, The.= BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

 =Descent of Man.= BY CHARLES DARWIN.

 =Discourses of Epictetus.= TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LONG.

 =Divine Comedy.= (DANTE.) TRANSLATED BY REV. H. F. CAREY.

 =Dombey & Son.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Donal Grant.= BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

 =Donovan.= BY EDNA LYALL.

 =Dora Deane.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Dove in the Eagle’s Nest.= BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

 =Dream Life.= BY IK MARVEL.

 =Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.= BY R. L. STEVENSON.

 =Duty.= BY SAMUEL SMILES.

 =Early Days of Christianity.= BY F. W. FARRAR.

 =East Lynne.= BY MRS. HENRY WOOD.

 =Edith Lyle’s Secret.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Education.= BY HERBERT SPENCER.

 =Egoist.= BY GEORGE MEREDITH.

 =Egyptian Princess.= BY GEORGE EBERS.

 =Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon.= BY JULES VERNE.

 =Eliot’s Poems.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

 =Elizabeth and her German Garden.=

 =Elizabeth (Queen of England), Life of.= BY EDWARD SPENCER BEESLY, M.A.

 =Elsie Venner.= BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

 =Emerson’s Essays.= (COMPLETE.) BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

 =Emerson’s Poems.= BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

 =English Orphans.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =English Traits.= BY R. W. EMERSON.

 =Essays in Criticism.= (FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.) BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

 =Essays of Elia.= BY CHARLES LAMB.

 =Esther.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Ethelyn’s Mistake.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Evangeline.= (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

 =Evelina.= BY FRANCES BURNEY.

 =Fair Maid of Perth.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Fairy Land of Science.= BY ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY.

 =Faust.= (GOETHE.) TRANSLATED BY ANNA SWANWICK.

 =Felix Holt.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

 =Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World.= BY E. S. CREASY.

 =File No. 113.= BY EMILE GABORIAU.

 =Firm of Girdlestone.= BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

 =First Principles.= BY HERBERT SPENCER.

 =First Violin.= BY JESSIE FOTHERGILL.

 =For Lilias.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Fortunes of Nigel.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Forty-Five Guardsmen.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Foul Play.= BY CHARLES READE.

 =Fragments of Science.= BY JOHN TYNDALL.

 =Frederick, the Great, Life of.= BY FRANCIS KUGLER.

 =Frederick the Great and His Court.= BY LOUISA MUHLBACH.

 =French Revolution.= BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

 =From the Earth to the Moon.= BY JULES VERNE.

 =Garibaldi, General, Life of.= BY THEODORE DWIGHT.

 =Gil Blas, Adventures of.= BY A. R. LE SAGE.

 =Gold Bug and Other Tales.= BY EDGAR A. POE.

 =Gold Elsie.= BY E. MARLITT.

 =Golden Treasury.= BY FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE.

 =Goldsmith’s Poems.= BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

 =Grandfather’s Chair.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 =Grant, Ulysses S., Life of.= BY J. T. HEADLEY.

 =Gray’s Poems.= BY THOMAS GRAY.

 =Great Expectations.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Greek Heroes. Fairy Tales for My Children.= BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 =Green Mountain Boys, The.= BY D. P. THOMPSON.

 =Grimm’s Household Tales.= BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

 =Grimm’s Popular Tales.= BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

 =Gulliver’s Travels.= BY DEAN SWIFT.

 =Guy Mannering.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Hale, Nathan, the Martyr Spy.= BY CHARLOTTE MOLYNEUX HOLLOWAY.

 =Handy Andy.= BY SAMUEL LOVER.

 =Hans of Iceland.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

 =Hannibal, the Carthaginian, Life of.= BY THOMAS ARNOLD, M. A.

 =Hardy Norseman, A.= BY EDNA LYALL.

 =Harold.= BY BULWER-LYTTON.

 =Harry Lorrequer.= BY CHARLES LEVER.

 =Heart of Midlothian.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Heir of Redclyffe.= BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

 =Hemans’ Poems.= BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

 =Henry Esmond.= BY WM. M. THACKERAY.

 =Henry, Patrick, Life of.= BY WILLIAM WIRT.

 =Her Dearest Foe.= BY MRS. ALEXANDER.

 =Hereward.= BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 =Heriot’s Choice.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Heroes and Hero-Worship.= BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

 =Hiawatha=, (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

 =Hidden Hand, The.= (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

 =History of a Crime.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

 =History of Civilization in Europe.= BY M. GUIZOT.

 =Holmes’ Poems.= (EARLY.) BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

 =Holy Roman Empire.= BY JAMES BRYCE.

 =Homestead on the Hillside.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Hood’s Poems.= BY THOMAS HOOD.

 =House of the Seven Gables.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 =Hunchback of Notre Dame.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

 =Hypatia.= BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

 =Hyperion.= BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

 =Iceland Fisherman.= BY PIERRE LOTI.

 =Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow.= BY JEROME K. JEROME.

 =Iliad.= POPE’S TRANSLATION.

 =Inez.= BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

 =Ingelow’s Poems.= BY JEAN INGELOW.

 =Initials.= BY THE BARONESS TAUTPHOEUS.

 =Intellectual Life.= BY PHILIP G. HAMERTON.

 =In the Counsellor’s House.= BY E. MARLITT.

 =In the Golden Days.= BY EDNA LYALL.

 =In the Heart of the Storm.= BY MAXWELL GRAY.

 =In the Schillingscourt.= BY E. MARLITT.

 =Ishmael.= (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

 =It Is Never Too Late to Mend.= BY CHARLES READE.

 =Ivanhoe.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Jane Eyre.= BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

 =Jefferson, Thomas, Life of.= BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.

 =Joan of Arc, Life of.= BY JULES MICHELET.

 =John Halifax, Gentleman.= BY MISS MULOCK.

 =Jones, John Paul, Life of.= BY JAMES OTIS.

 =Joseph Balsamo.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Josephine, Empress of France, Life of.= BY FREDERICK A. OBER.

 =Keats’ Poems.= BY JOHN KEATS.

 =Kenilworth.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Kidnapped.= BY R. L. STEVENSON.

 =King Arthur and His Noble Knights.= BY MARY MACLEOD.

 =Knickerbocker’s History of New York.= BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

 =Knight Errant.= BY EDNA LYALL.

 =Koran.= TRANSLATED BY GEORGE SALE.

 =Lady of the Lake.= (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Lady with the Rubies.= BY E. MARLITT.

 =Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of.= BY P. C. HEADLEY.

 =Lalla Rookh.= (WITH NOTES.) BY THOMAS MOORE.

 =Lamplighter.= BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.

 =Last Days of Pompeii.= BY BULWER-LYTTON.

 =Last of the Barons.= BY BULWER-LYTTON.

 =Last of the Mohicans.= BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

 =Lay of the Last Minstrel.= (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Lee, General Robert E., Life of.= BY G. MERCER ADAM.

 =Lena Rivers.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Life of Christ.= BY FREDERICK W. FARRAR.

 =Life of Jesus.= BY ERNEST RENAN.

 =Light of Asia.= BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

 =Light That Failed.= BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

 =Lincoln, Abraham, Life of.= BY HENRY KETCHAM.

 =Lincoln’s Speeches.= SELECTED AND EDITED BY G. MERCER ADAM.

 =Literature and Dogma.= BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

 =Little Dorrit.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Little Minister.= BY JAMES M. BARRIE.

 =Livingstone, David, Life of.= BY THOMAS HUGHES.

 =Longfellow’s Poems.= (EARLY.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

 =Lorna Doone.= BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

 =Louise de la Valliere.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Love Me Little, Love Me Long.= BY CHARLES READE.

 =Lowell’s Poems.= (EARLY.) BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

 =Lucile.= BY OWEN MEREDITH.

 =Macaria.= BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

 =Macaulay’s Literary Essays.= BY T. B. MACAULAY.

 =Macaulay’s Poems.= BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

 =Madame Therese.= BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.

 =Maggie Miller.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Magic Skin.= BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

 =Mahomet, Life of.= BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

 =Makers of Florence.= BY MRS. OLIPHANT.

 =Makers of Venice.= BY MRS. OLIPHANT.

 =Man and Wife.= BY WILKIE COLLINS.

 =Man in the Iron Mask.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Marble Faun.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 =Marguerite de la Valois.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Marian Grey.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Marius, The Epicurian.= BY WALTER PATER.

 =Marmion.= (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Marquis of Lossie.= BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

 =Martin Chuzzlewit.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Mary, Queen of Scots, Life of.= BY P. C. HEADLEY.

 =Mary St. John.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Master of Ballantrae, The.= BY R. L. STEVENSON.

 =Masterman Ready.= BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.

 =Meadow Brook.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.= TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LONG.

 =Memoirs of a Physician.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Merle’s Crusade.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Micah Clarke.= BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

 =Michael Strogoff.= BY JULES VERNE.

 =Middlemarch.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

 =Midshipman Easy.= BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.

 =Mildred.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Millbank.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

 =Mill on the Floss.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

 =Milton’s Poems.= BY JOHN MILTON.

 =Mine Own People.= BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

 =Minister’s Wooing, The.= BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

 =Monastery.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Moonstone.= BY WILKIE COLLINS.

 =Moore’s Poems.= BY THOMAS MOORE.

 =Mosses from an Old Manse.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

 =Murders in the Rue Morgue.= BY EDGAR ALLEN POE.

 =Mysterious Island.= BY JULES VERNE.

 =Napoleon Bonaparte, Life of.= BY P. C. HEADLEY.

 =Napoleon and His Marshals.= BY J. T. HEADLEY.

 =Natural Law in the Spiritual World.= BY HENRY DRUMMOND.

 =Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.= BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.

 =Nature, Addresses and Lectures.= BY R. W. EMERSON.

 =Nellie’s Memories.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Nelson, Admiral Horatio, Life of.= BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

 =Newcomes.= BY WILLIAM M. THACKERAY.

 =Nicholas Nickleby.= BY CHAS. DICKENS.

 =Ninety-Three.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

 =Not Like Other Girls.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Odyssey.= POPE’S TRANSLATION.

 =Old Curiosity Shop.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Old Mam’selle’s Secret.= BY E. MARLITT.

 =Old Mortality.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Old Myddleton’s Money.= BY MARY CECIL HAY.

 =Oliver Twist.= BY CHAS. DICKENS.

 =Only the Governess.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =On the Heights.= BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.

 =Oregon Trail.= BY FRANCIS PARKMAN.

 =Origin of Species.= BY CHARLES DARWIN.

 =Other Worlds than Ours.= BY RICHARD PROCTOR.

 =Our Bessie.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

 =Our Mutual Friend.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

 =Outre-Mer.= BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

 =Owl’s Nest.= BY E. MARLITT.

 =Page of the Duke of Savoy.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

 =Pair of Blue Eyes.= BY THOMAS HARDY.

 =Pan Michael.= BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.

 =Past and Present.= BY THOS. CARLYLE.

 =Pathfinder.= BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

 =Paul and Virginia.= BY B. DE ST. PIERRE.

 =Pendennis, History of.= BY WM. M. THACKERAY.

 =Penn, William, Life of.= BY W. HEPWORTH DIXON.

 =Pere Goriot.= BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

 =Peter the Great, Life of.= BY JOHN BARROW.

 =Peveril of the Peak.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

 =Phantom Rickshaw, The.= BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

 =Philip II. of Spain, Life of.= BY MARTIN A. S. HUME.

 =Picciola.= BY X. B. SAINTINE.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.



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