Amiga CD32/Amiga CD32 1994 - Brilliant PD Games.iso/literature/50.zenda.3

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CHAPTER 17


Young Rupert's Midnight Diversions


The night came fine and clear.  I had prayed for
dirty weather, such as had favoured my previous
voyage in the moat, but Fortune was this time
against me.  Still I reckoned that by keeping
close under the wall and in the shadow I could
escape detection from the windows of the chateau
that looked out on the scene of my efforts.  If
they searched the moat, indeed, my scheme must
fail; but I did not think they would.  They had
made "Jacob's Ladder" secure against attack.
Johann had himself helped to fix it closely to the
masonry on the under side, so that it could not
now be moved from below any more than from above.
An assault with explosives or a long battering
with picks alone could displace it, and the noise
involved in either of these operations put them
out of the question.  What harm, then, could a man
do in the moat?  I trusted that Black Michael,
putting this query to himself, would answer
confidently, "None;" while, even if Johann meant
treachery, he did not know my scheme, and would
doubtless expect to see me, at the head of my
friends, before the front entrance to the chateau.
There, I said to Sapt, was the real danger.  "And
there," I added, "you shall be.  Doesn't that
content you?"

But it did not.  Dearly would he have liked to
come with me, had I not utterly refused to take
him.  One man might escape notice, to double the
party more than doubled the risk; and when he
ventured to hint once again that my life was too
valuable, I, knowing the secret thought he clung
to, sternly bade him be silent, assuring him that
unless the King lived through the night, I would
not live through it either.

At twelve o'clock, Sapt's command left the chateau
of Tarlenheim and struck off to the right, riding
by unfrequented roads, and avoiding the town of
Zenda.  If all went well, they would be in front
of the Castle by about a quarter to two.  Leaving
their horses half a mile off, they were to steal
up to the entrance and hold themselves in
readiness for the opening of the door.  If the
door were not opened by two, they were to send
Fritz von Tarlenheim round to the other side of
the Castle.  I would meet him there if I were
alive, and we would consult whether to storm the
Castle or not.  If I were not there, they were to
return with all speed to Tarlenheim, rouse the
Marshal, and march in force to Zenda.  For if not
there, I should be dead; and I knew that the King
would not be alive five minutes after I ceased to
breathe.  I must now leave Sapt and his friends,
and relate how I myself proceeded on this eventful
night.  I went out on the good horse which had
carried me, on the night of the coronation, back
from the hunting-lodge to Strelsau.  I carried a
revolver in the saddle and my sword.  I was
covered with a large cloak, and under this I wore
a warm, tight-fitting woollen jersey, a pair of
knickerbockers, thick stockings, and light canvas
shoes.  I had rubbed myself thoroughly with oil,
and I carried a large flask of whisky.  The night
was warm, but I might probably be immersed a long
while, and it was necessary to take every
precaution against cold:  for cold not only saps a
man's courage if he has to die, but impairs his
energy if others have to die, and, finally, gives
him rheumatics, if it be God's will that he lives.
Also I tied round my body a length of thin but
stout cord, and I did not forget my ladder.  I,
starting after Sapt, took a shorter route,
skirting the town to the left, and found myself in
the outskirts of the forest at about half-past
twelve.  I tied my horse up in a thick clump of
trees, leaving the revolver in its pocket in the
saddle--it would be no use to me--and, ladder in
hand, made my way to the edge of the moat.  Here I
unwound my rope from about my waist, bound it
securely round the trunk of a tree on the bank,
and let myself down.  The Castle clock struck a
quarter to one as I felt the water under me and
began to swim round the keep, pushing the ladder
before me, and hugging the Castle wall.  Thus
voyaging, I came to my old friend, "Jacob's
Ladder," and felt the ledge of the masonry under
me.  I crouched down in the shadow of the great
pipe--I tried to stir it, but it was quite
immovable--and waited.  I remember that my
predominant feeling was neither anxiety for the
King nor longing for Flavia, but an intense desire
to smoke; and this craving, of course, I could not
gratify.

The drawbridge was still in its place.  I saw its
airy, slight framework above me, some ten yards to
my right, as I crouched with my back against the
wall of the King's cell.  I made out a window two
yards my side of it and nearly on the same level.
That, if Johann spoke true, must belong to the
duke's apartments; and on the other side, in about
the same relative position, must be Madame de
Mauban's window.  Women are careless, forgetful
creatures.  I prayed that she might not forget
that she was to be the victim of a brutal attempt
at two o'clock precisely.  I was rather amused at
the part I had assigned to my young friend Rupert
Hentzau; but I owed him a stroke--for, even as I
sat, my shoulder ached where he had, with an
audacity that seemed half to hide his treachery,
struck at me, in the sight of all my friends, on
the terrace at Tarlenheim.

Suddenly the duke's window grew bright.  The
shutters were not closed, and the interior became
partially visible to me as I cautiously raised
myself till I stood on tiptoe.  Thus placed, my
range of sight embraced a yard or more inside the
window, while the radius of light did not reach
me.  The window was flung open and someone looked
out.  I marked Antoinette de Mauban's graceful
figure, and, though her face was in shadow, the
fine outline of her head was revealed against the
light behind.  I longed to cry softly, "Remember!"
but I dared not--and happily, for a moment later a
man came up and stood by her.  He tried to put his
arm round her waist, but with a swift motion she
sprang away and leant against the shutter, her
profile towards me.  I made out who the newcomer
was:  it was young Rupert.  A low laugh from him
made me sure, as he leant forward, stretching out
his hand towards her.

"Gently, gently!" I murmured.  "You're too soon,
my boy!"

His head was close to hers.  I suppose he
whispered to her, for I saw her point to the moat,
and I heard her say, in slow and distinct tones:

"I had rather throw myself out of this window!"

He came close up to the window and looked out.

"It looks cold," said he.  "Come, Antoinette, are
you serious?"

She made no answer so far as I heard; and he
smiting his hand petulantly on the window-sill,
went on, in the voice of some spoilt child:

"Hang Black Michael!  Isn't the princess enough
for him?  Is he to have everything?  What the
devil do you see in Black Michael?"

"If I told him what you say--" she began.

"Well, tell him," said Rupert, carelessly; and,
catching her off her guard, he sprang forward and
kissed her, laughing, and crying, "There's
something to tell him!"

If I had kept my revolver with me, I should have
been very sorely tempted.  Being spared the
temptation, I merely added this new score to his
account.

"Though, faith," said Rupert, "it's little he
cares.  He's mad about the princess, you know.  He
talks of nothing but cutting the play-actor's
throat."

Didn't he, indeed?

"And if I do it for him, what do you think he's
promised me?"

The unhappy woman raised her hands above her head,
in prayer or in despair.

"But I detest waiting," said Rupert; and I saw
that he was about to lay his hand on her again,
when there was a noise of a door in the room
opening, and a harsh voice cried:

"What are you doing here, sir?"

Rupert turned his back to the window, bowed low,
and said, in his loud, merry tones:  "Apologizing
for your absence, sir.  Could I leave the lady
alone?"

The newcomer must be Black Michael.  I saw him
directly, as he advanced towards the window.  He
caught young Rupert by the arm.

"The moat would hold more than the King!" said he,
with a significant gesture.

"Does your Highness threaten me?" asked Rupert.

"A threat is more warning than most men get from
me."

"Yet," observed Rupert, "Rudolf Rassendyll has
been much threatened, and yet lives!"

"Am I in fault because my servants bungle?" asked
Michael scornfully.

"Your Highness has run no risk of bungling!"
sneered Rupert.

It was telling the duke that he shirked danger as
plain as ever I have heard a man told.  Black
Michael had self-control.  I dare say he
scowled--it was a great regret to me that I could
not see their faces better--but his voice was even
and calm, as he answered:

"Enough, enough!  We mustn't quarrel, Rupert.  Are
Detchard and Bersonin at their posts?"

"They are, sir."

"I need you no more."

"Nay, I'm not oppressed with fatigue," said
Rupert.

"Pray, sir, leave us," said Michael, more
impatiently.  "In ten minutes the drawbridge will
be drawn back, and I presume you have no wish to
swim to your bed."

Rupert's figure disappeared.  I heard the door
open and shut again.  Michael and Antoinette de
Mauban were left together.  To my chagrin, the
duke laid his hand on the window and closed it.
He stood talking to Antoinette for a moment or
two.  She shook her head, and he turned
impatiently away.  She left the window.  The door
sounded again, and Black Michael closed the
shutters.

"De Gautet, De Gautet, man!" sounded from the
drawbridge.  "Unless you want a bath before your
bed, come along!"

It was Rupert's voice, coming from the end of the
drawbridge.  A moment later he and De Gautet
stepped out on the bridge.  Rupert's arm was
through De Gautet's, and in the middle of the
bridge he detained his companion and leant over.
I dropped behind the shelter of "Jacob's Ladder."

Then Master Rupert had a little sport.  He took
from De Gautet a bottle which he carried, and put
it to his lips.

"Hardly a drop!" he cried discontentedly, and
flung it in the moat.

It fell, as I judged from the sound and the
circles on the water, within a yard of the pipe.
And Rupert, taking out his revolver, began to
shoot at it.  The first two shots missed the
bottle, but hit the pipe.  The third shattered the
bottle.  I hoped that the young ruffian would be
content; but he emptied the other barrels at the
pipe, and one, skimming over the pipe, whistled
through my hair as I crouched on the other side.

"'Ware bridge!" a voice cried, to my relief.

Rupert and De Gautet cried, "A moment!" and ran
across.  The bridge was drawn back, and all became
still.  The clock struck a quarter-past one.  I
rose and stretched myself and yawned.

I think some ten minutes had passed when I heard a
slight noise to my right.  I peered over the pipe,
and saw a dark figure standing in the gateway that
led to the bridge.  It was a man.  By the
careless, graceful poise, I guessed it to be
Rupert again.  He held a sword in his hand, and he
stood motionless for a minute or two.  Wild
thoughts ran through me.  On what mischief was the
young fiend bent now?  Then he laughed low to
himself; then he turned his face to the wall, took
a step in my direction, and, to my surprise, began
to climb down the wall.  In an instant I saw that
there must be steps in the wall; it was plain.
They were cut into or affixed to the wall, at
intervals of about eighteen inches.  Rupert set
his foot on the lower one.  Then he placed his
sword between his teeth, turned round, and
noiselessly let himself into the water.  Had it
been a matter of my life only, I would have swum
to meet him.  Dearly would I have loved to fight
it out with him then and there--with steel, on a
fine night, and none to come between us.  But
there was the King!  I restrained myself, but I
could not bridle my swift breathing, and I watched
him with the intensest eagerness.

He swam leisurely and quietly across.  There were
more steps up on the other side, and he climbed
them.  When he set foot in the gateway, standing
on the drawn-back bridge, he felt in his pocket
and took something out.  I heard him unlock the
door.  I could hear no noise of its closing behind
him.  He vanished from my sight.

Abandoning my ladder--I saw I did not need it
now--I swam to the side of the bridge and climbed
half way up the steps.  There I hung with my sword
in my hand, listening eagerly.  The duke's room
was shuttered and dark.  There was a light in the
window on the opposite side of the bridge.  Not a
sound broke the silence, till half-past one chimed
from the great clock in the tower of the chateau.

There were other plots than mine afoot in the
Castle that night.




CHAPTER 18


The Forcing of the Trap


The position wherein I stood does not appear very
favourable to thought; yet for the next moment or
two I thought profoundly.  I had, I told myself,
scored one point.  Be Rupert Hentzau's errand what
it might, and the villainy he was engaged on what
it would, I had scored one point.  He was on the
other side of the moat from the King, and it would
be by no fault of mine if ever he set foot on the
same side again.  I had three left to deal with:
two on guard and De Gautet in his bed.  Ah, if I
had the keys!  I would have risked everything and
attacked Detchard and Bersonin before their
friends could join them.  But I was powerless.  I
must wait till the coming of my friends enticed
someone to cross the bridge--someone with the
keys.  And I waited, as it seemed, for half an
hour, really for about five minutes, before the
next act in the rapid drama began.

All was still on the other side.  The duke's room
remained inscrutable behind its shutters.  The
light burnt steadily in Madame de Mauban's window.
Then I heard the faintest, faintest sound:  it
came from behind the door which led to the
drawbridge on the other side of the moat.  It but
just reached my ear, yet I could not be mistaken
as to what it was.  It was made by a key being
turned very carefully and slowly.  Who was turning
it?  And of what room was it the key?  There leapt
before my eyes the picture of young Rupert, with
the key in one hand, his sword in the other, and
an evil smile on his face.  But I did not know
what door it was, nor on which of his favourite
pursuits young Rupert was spending the hours of
that night.

I was soon to be enlightened, for the next
moment--before my friends could be near the
chateau door--before Johann the keeper would have
thought to nerve himself for his task-- there was
a sudden crash from the room with the lighted
window.  It sounded as though someone had flung
down a lamp; and the window went dark and black.
At the same instant a cry rang out, shrill in the
night:  "Help, help!  Michael, help!" and was
followed by a shriek of utter terror.

I was tingling in every nerve.  I stood on the
topmost step, clinging to the threshold of the
gate with my right hand and holding my sword in my
left.  Suddenly I perceived that the gateway was
broader than the bridge; there was a dark corner
on the opposite side where a man could stand.  I
darted across and stood there.  Thus placed, I
commanded the path, and no man could pass between
the chateau and the old Castle till he had tried
conclusions with me.

There was another shriek.  Then a door was flung
open and clanged against the wall, and I heard the
handle of a door savagely twisted.

"Open the door!  In God's name, what's the
matter?" cried a voice--the voice of Black Michael
himself.

He was answered by the very words I had written in
my letter.

"Help, Michael--Hentzau!"

A fierce oath rang out from the duke, and with a
loud thud he threw himself against the door.  At
the same moment I heard a window above my head
open, and a voice cried:  "What's the matter?" and
I heard a man's hasty footsteps.  I grasped my
sword.  If De Gautet came my way, the Six would be
less by one more.

Then I heard the clash of crossed swords and a
tramp of feet and --I cannot tell the thing so
quickly as it happened, for all seemed to come at
once.  There was an angry cry from madame's room,
the cry of a wounded man; the window was flung
open; young Rupert stood there sword in hand.  He
turned his back, and I saw his body go forward to
the lunge.

"Ah, Johann, there's one for you!  Come on,
Michael!"

Johann was there, then--come to the rescue of the
duke!  How would he open the door for me?  For I
feared that Rupert had slain him.

"Help!" cried the duke's voice, faint and husky.

I heard a step on the stairs above me; and I heard
a stir down to my left, in the direction of the
King's cell.  But, before anything happened on my
side of the moat, I saw five or six men round
young Rupert in the embrasure of madame's window.
Three or four times he lunged with incomparable
dash and dexterity.  For an instant they fell
back, leaving a ring round him.  He leapt on the
parapet of the window, laughing as he leapt, and
waving his sword in his hand.  He was drunk with
blood, and he laughed again wildly as he flung
himself headlong into the moat.

What became of him then?  I did not see:  for as
he leapt, De Gautet's lean face looked out through
the door by me, and, without a second's
hesitation, I struck at him with all the strength
God had given me, and he fell dead in the doorway
without a word or a groan.  I dropped on my knees
by him.  Where were the keys?  I found myself
muttering:  "The keys, man, the keys?" as though
he had been yet alive and could listen; and when I
could not find them, I--God forgive me!-- I
believe I struck a dead man's face.

At last I had them.  There were but three.
Seizing the largest, I felt the lock of the door
that led to the cell.  I fitted in the key.  It
was right.  The lock turned.  I drew the door
close behind me and locked it as noiselessly as I
could, putting the key in my pocket.

I found myself at the top of a flight of steep
stone stairs.  An oil lamp burnt dimly in the
bracket.  I took it down and held it in my hand;
and I stood and listened.

"What in the devil can it be?" I heard a voice
say.

It came from behind a door that faced me at the
bottom of the stairs.

And another answered:

"Shall we kill him?"

I strained to hear the answer, and could have
sobbed with relief when Detchard's voice came
grating and cold:

"Wait a bit.  There'll be trouble if we strike too
soon."

There was a moment's silence.  Then I heard the
bolt of the door cautiously drawn back.  Instantly
I put out the light I held, replacing the lamp in
the bracket.

"It's dark--the lamp's out.  Have you a light?"
said the other voice--Bersonin's.

No doubt they had a light, but they should not use
it.  It was come to the crisis now, and I rushed
down the steps and flung myself against the door.
Bersonin had unbolted it and it gave way before
me.  The Belgian stood there sword in hand, and
Detchard was sitting on a couch at the side of the
room.  In astonishment at seeing me, Bersonin
recoiled; Detchard jumped to his sword.  I rushed
madly at the Belgian:  he gave way before me, and
I drove him up against the wall.  He was no
swordsman, though he fought bravely, and in a
moment he lay on the floor before me.  I
turned--Detchard was not there.  Faithful to his
orders, he had not risked a fight with me, but had
rushed straight to the door of the King's room,
opened it and slammed it behind him.  Even now he
was at his work inside.

And surely he would have killed the King, and
perhaps me also, had it not been for one devoted
man who gave his life for the King.  For when I
forced the door, the sight I saw was this:  the
King stood in the corner of the room:  broken by
his sickness, he could do nothing; his fettered
hands moved uselessly up and down, and he was
laughing horribly in half-mad delirium.  Detchard
and the doctor were together in the middle of the
room; and the doctor had flung himself on the
murderer, pinning his hands to his sides for an
instant.  Then Detchard wrenched himself free from
the feeble grip, and, as I entered, drove his
sword through the hapless man.  Then he turned on
me, crying:

"At last!"

We were sword to sword.  By blessed chance,
neither he nor Bersonin had been wearing their
revolvers.  I found them afterwards, ready loaded,
on the mantelpiece of the outer room:  it was hard
by the door, ready to their hands, but my sudden
rush in had cut off access to them.  Yes, we were
man to man:  and we began to fight, silently,
sternly, and hard.  Yet I remember little of it,
save that the man was my match with the
sword--nay, and more, for he knew more tricks than
I; and that he forced me back against the bars
that guarded the entrance to "Jacob's Ladder." And
I saw a smile on his face, and he wounded me in
the left arm.

No glory do I take for that contest.  I believe
that the man would have mastered me and slain me,
and then done his butcher's work, for he was the
most skilful swordsman I have ever met; but even
as he pressed me hard, the half-mad, wasted, wan
creature in the corner leapt high in lunatic
mirth, shrieking:

"It's cousin Rudolf!  Cousin Rudolf!  I'll help
you, cousin Rudolf!" and catching up a chair in
his hands (he could but just lift it from the
ground and hold it uselessly before him) he came
towards us.  Hope came to me.  "Come on!" I cried.
"Come on!  Drive it against his legs."

Detchard replied with a savage thrust.  He all but
had me.

"Come on!  Come on, man!" I cried.  "Come and
share the fun!"

And the King laughed gleefully, and came on,
pushing his chair before him.

With an oath Detchard skipped back, and, before I
knew what he was doing, had turned his sword
against the King.  He made one fierce cut at the
King, and the King, with a piteous cry, dropped
where he stood.  The stout ruffian turned to face
me again.  But his own hand had prepared his
destruction:  for in turning he trod in the pool
of blood that flowed from the dead physician.  He
slipped; he fell.  Like a dart I was upon him.  I
caught him by the throat, and before he could
recover himself I drove my point through his neck,
and with a stifled curse he fell across the body
of his victim.

Was the King dead?  It was my first thought.  I
rushed to where he lay.  Ay, it seemed as if he
were dead, for he had a great gash across his
forehead, and he lay still in a huddled heap on
the floor.  I dropped on my knees beside him, and
leant my ear down to hear if he breathed.  But
before I could there was a loud rattle from the
outside.  I knew the sound:  the drawbridge was
being pushed out.  A moment later it rang home
against the wall on my side of the moat.  I should
be caught in a trap and the King with me, if he
yet lived.  He must take his chance, to live or
die.  I took my sword, and passed into the outer
room.  Who were pushing the drawbridge out--my
men?  If so, all was well.  My eye fell on the
revolvers, and I seized one; and paused to listen
in the doorway of the outer room.  To listen, say
I?  Yes, and to get my breath:  and I tore my
shirt and twisted a strip of it round my bleeding
arm; and stood listening again.  I would have
given the world to hear Sapt's voice.  For I was
faint, spent, and weary.  And that wild-cat Rupert
Hentzau was yet at large in the Castle.  Yet,
because I could better defend the narrow door at
the top of the stairs than the wider entrance to
the room, I dragged myself up the steps, and stood
behind it listening.

What was the sound?  Again a strange one for the
place and time.  An easy, scornful, merry
laugh--the laugh of young Rupert Hentzau!  I could
scarcely believe that a sane man would laugh.  Yet
the laugh told me that my men had not come; for
they must have shot Rupert ere now, if they had
come.  And the clock struck half-past two!  My
God!  The door had not been opened!  They had gone
to the bank!  They had not found me!  They had
gone by now back to Tarlenheim, with the news of
the King's death--and mine.  Well, it would be
true before they got there.  Was not Rupert
laughing in triumph?

For a moment, I sank, unnerved, against the door.
Then I started up alert again, for Rupert cried
scornfully:

"Well, the bridge is there!  Come over it!  And in
God's name, let's see Black Michael.  Keep back,
you curs!  Michael, come and fight for her!"

If it were a three-cornered fight, I might yet
bear my part.  I turned the key in the door and
looked out.




CHAPTER 19


Face to Face in the Forest


For a moment I could see nothing, for the glare of
lanterns and torches caught me full in the eyes
from the other side of the bridge.  But soon the
scene grew clear:  and it was a strange scene.
The bridge was in its place.  At the far end of it
stood a group of the duke's servants; two or three
carried the lights which had dazzled me, three or
four held pikes in rest.  They were huddled
together; their weapons were protruded before
them; their faces were pale and agitated.  To put
it plainly, they looked in as arrant a fright as I
have seen men look, and they gazed apprehensively
at a man who stood in the middle of the bridge,
sword in hand.  Rupert Hentzau was in his trousers
and shirt; the white linen was stained with blood,
but his easy, buoyant pose told me that he was
himself either not touched at all or merely
scratched.  There he stood, holding the bridge
against them, and daring them to come on; or,
rather, bidding them send Black Michael to him;
and they, having no firearms, cowered before the
desperate man and dared not attack him.  They
whispered to one another; and in the backmost
rank, I saw my friend Johann, leaning against the
portal of the door and stanching with a
handkerchief the blood which flowed from a wound
in his cheek.

By marvellous chance, I was master.  The cravens
would oppose me no more than they dared attack
Rupert.  I had but to raise my revolver, and I
sent him to his account with his sins on his head.
He did not so much as know that I was there.  I
did nothing--why, I hardly know to this day.  I
had killed one man stealthily that night, and
another by luck rather than skill-- perhaps it was
that.  Again, villain as the man was, I did not
relish being one of a crowd against him--perhaps
it was that.  But stronger than either of these
restrained feelings came a curiosity and a
fascination which held me spellbound, watching for
the outcome of the scene.

"Michael, you dog!  Michael!  If you can stand,
come on!" cried Rupert; and he advanced a step,
the group shrinking back a little before him.
"Michael, you bastard!  Come on!"

The answer to his taunts came in the wild cry of a
woman:

"He's dead!  My God, he's dead!"

"Dead!" shouted Rupert.  "I struck better than I
knew!" and he laughed triumphantly.  Then he went
on:  "Down with your weapons there!  I'm your
master now!  Down with them, I say!"

I believe they would have obeyed, but as he spoke
came new things.  First, there arose a distant
sound, as of shouts and knockings from the other
side of the chateau.  My heart leapt.  It must be
my men, come by a happy disobedience to seek me.
The noise continued, but none of the rest seemed
to heed it.  Their attention was chained by what
now happened before their eyes.  The group of
servants parted and a woman staggered on to the
bridge.  Antoinette de Mauban was in a loose white
robe, her dark hair streamed over her shoulders,
her face was ghastly pale, and her eyes gleamed
wildly in the light of the torches.  In her
shaking hand she held a revolver, and, as she
tottered forward, she fired it at Rupert Hentzau.
The ball missed him, and struck the woodwork over
my head.

"Faith, madame," laughed Rupert, "had your eyes
been no more deadly than your shooting, I had not
been in this scrape--nor Black Michael in
hell--tonight!"

She took no notice of his words.  With a wonderful
effort, she calmed herself till she stood still
and rigid.  Then very slowly and deliberately she
began to raise her arm again, taking most careful
aim.

He would be mad to risk it.  He must rush on her,
chancing the bullet, or retreat towards me.  I
covered him with my weapon.

He did neither.  Before she had got her aim, he
bowed in his most graceful fashion, cried "I can't
kill where I've kissed," and before she or I could
stop him, laid his hand on the parapet of the
bridge, and lightly leapt into the moat.

At that very moment I heard a rush of feet, and a
voice I knew--Sapt's-- cry:  "God!  it's the
duke--dead!" Then I knew that the King needed me
no more, and throwing down my revolver, I sprang
out on the bridge.  There was a cry of wild
wonder, "The King!" and then I, like Rupert of
Hentzau, sword in hand, vaulted over the parapet,
intent on finishing my quarrel with him where I
saw his curly head fifteen yards off in the water
of the moat.

He swam swiftly and easily.  I was weary and half
crippled with my wounded arm.  I could not gain on
him.  For a time I made no sound, but as we
rounded the corner of the old keep I cried:

"Stop, Rupert, stop!"

I saw him look over his shoulder, but he swam on.
He was under the bank now, searching, as I
guessed, for a spot that he could climb.  I knew
there to be none--but there was my rope, which
would still be hanging where I had left it.  He
would come to where it was before I could.
Perhaps he would miss it-- perhaps he would find
it; and if he drew it up after him, he would get a
good start of me.  I put forth all my remaining
strength and pressed on.  At last I began to gain
on him; for he, occupied with his search,
unconsciously slackened his pace.

Ah, he had found it!  A low shout of triumph came
from him.  He laid hold of it and began to haul
himself up.  I was near enough to hear him mutter:
"How the devil comes this here?' I was at the
rope, and he, hanging in mid air, saw me, but I
could not reach him.

"Hullo!  who's here?" he cried in startled tones.

For a moment, I believe, he took me for the
King--I dare say I was pale enough to lend colour
to the thought; but an instant later he cried:

"Why it's the play-actor!  How come you here,
man?"

And so saying he gained the bank.

I laid hold of the rope, but I paused.  He stood
on the bank, sword in hand, and he could cut my
head open or spit me through the heart as I came
up.  I let go the rope.

"Never mind," said I; "but as I am here, I think
I'll stay."

He smiled down on me.

"These women are the deuce--" he began; when
suddenly the great bell of the Castle started to
ring furiously, and a loud shout reached us from
the moat.

Rupert smiled again, and waved his hand to me.

"I should like a turn with you, but it's a little
too hot!" said he, and he disappeared from above
me.

In an instant, without thinking of danger, I laid
my hand to the rope.  I was up.  I saw him thirty
yards off, running like a deer towards the shelter
of the forest.  For once Rupert Hentzau had chosen
discretion for his part.  I laid my feet to the
ground and rushed after him, calling to him to
stand.  He would not.  Unwounded and vigorous, he
gained on me at every step; but, forgetting
everything in the world except him and my thirst
for his blood, I pressed on, and soon the deep
shades of the forest of Zenda engulfed us both,
pursued and pursuer.

It was three o'clock now, and day was dawning.  I
was on a long straight grass avenue, and a hundred
yards ahead ran young Rupert, his curls waving in
the fresh breeze.  I was weary and panting; he
looked over his shoulder and waved his hand again
to me.  He was mocking me, for he saw he had the
pace of me.  I was forced to pause for breath.  A
moment later, Rupert turned sharply to the right
and was lost from my sight.

I thought all was over, and in deep vexation sank
on the ground.  But I was up again directly, for a
scream rang through the forest-- a woman's scream.
Putting forth the last of my strength, I ran on to
the place where he had turned out of my sight,
and, turning also, I saw him again.  But alas!  I
could not touch him.  He was in the act of lifting
a girl down from her horse; doubtless it was her
scream that I heard.  She looked like a small
farmer's or a peasant's daughter, and she carried
a basket on her arm.  Probably she was on her way
to the early market at Zenda.  Her horse was a
stout, well shaped animal.  Master Rupert lifted
her down amid her shrieks--the sight of him
frightened her; but he treated her gently,
laughed, kissed her, and gave her money.  Then he
jumped on the horse, sitting sideways like a
woman; and then he waited for me.  I, on my part,
waited for him.

Presently he rode towards me, keeping his
distance, however.  He lifted up his hand, saying:

"What did you in the Castle?"

"I killed three of your friends," said I.

"What!  You got to the cells?"

"Yes."

"And the King?"

"He was hurt by Detchard before I killed Detchard,
but I pray that he lives."

"You fool!" said Rupert, pleasantly.

"One thing more I did."

"And what's that?"

"I spared your life.  I was behind you on the
bridge, with a revolver in my hand."

"No?  Faith, I was between two fires!"

"Get off your horse," I cried, "and fight like a
man."

"Before a lady!" said he, pointing to the girl.
"Fie, your Majesty!"

Then in my rage, hardly knowing what I did, I
rushed at him.  For a moment he seemed to waver.
Then he reined his horse in and stood waiting for
me.  On I went in my folly.  I seized the bridle
and I struck at him.  He parried and thrust at me.
I fell back a pace and rushed at him again; and
this time I reached his face and laid his cheek
open, and darted back almost before he could
strike me.  He seemed almost dazed at the
fierceness of my attack; otherwise I think he must
have killed me.  I sank on my knee panting,
expecting him to ride at me.  And so he would have
done, and then and there, I doubt not, one or both
of us would have died; but at the moment there
came a shout from behind us, and, looking round, I
saw, just at the turn of the avenue, a man on a
horse.  He was riding hard, and he carried a
revolver in his hand.  It was Fritz von
Tarlenheim, my faithful friend.  Rupert saw him,
and knew that the game was up.  He checked his
rush at me and flung his leg over the saddle, but
yet for just a moment he waited.  Leaning forward,
he tossed his hair off his forehead and smiled,
and said:  "Au revoir, Rudolf Rassendyll!"

Then, with his cheek streaming blood, but his lips
laughing and his body swaying with ease and grace,
he bowed to me; and he bowed to the farm-girl, who
had drawn near in trembling fascination, and he
waved his hand to Fritz, who was just within range
and let fly a shot at him.  The ball came nigh
doing its work, for it struck the sword he held,
and he dropped the sword with an oath, wringing
his fingers and clapped his heels hard on his
horse's belly, and rode away at a gallop.

And I watched him go down the long avenue, riding
as though he rode for his pleasure and singing as
he went, for all there was that gash in his cheek.

Once again he turned to wave his hand, and then
the gloom of thickets swallowed him and he was
lost from our sight.  Thus he vanished--reckless
and wary, graceful and graceless,
handsome,debonair, vile, and unconquered.  And I
flung my sword passionately on the ground and
cried to Fritz to ride after him.  But Fritz
stopped his horse, and leapt down and ran to me,
and knelt, putting his arm about me.  And indeed
it was time, for the wound that Detchard had given
me was broken forth afresh, and my blood was
staining the ground.

"Then give me the horse!" I cried, staggering to
my feet and throwing his arms off me.  And the
strength of my rage carried me so far as where the
horse stood, and then I fell prone beside it.  And
Fritz knelt by me again.

"Fritz!" I said.

"Ay, friend--dear friend!" he said, tender as a
woman.

"Is the King alive?"

He took his handkerchief and wiped my lips, and
bent and kissed me on the forehead.

"Thanks to the most gallant gentleman that lives,"
said he softly, "the King is alive!"

The little farm-girl stood by us, weeping for
fright and wide-eyed for wonder; for she had seen
me at Zenda; and was not I, pallid, dripping,
foul, and bloody as I was-- yet was not I the
King?

And when I heard that the King was alive, I strove
to cry "Hurrah!" But I could not speak, and I laid
my head back in Fritz's arms and closed my eyes,
and I groaned; and then, lest Fritz should do me
wrong in his thoughts, I opened my eyes and tried
to say "Hurrah!" again.  But I could not.  And
being very tired, and now very cold, I huddled
myself close up to Fritz, to get the warmth of
him, and shut my eyes again and went to sleep.




CHAPTER 20


The Prisoner and the King


In order to a full understanding of what had
occurred in the Castle of Zenda, it is necessary
to supplement my account of what I myself saw and
did on that night by relating briefly what I
afterwards learnt from Fritz and Madame de Mauban.
The story told by the latter explained clearly how
it happened that the cry which I had arranged as a
stratagem and a sham had come, in dreadful
reality, before its time, and had thus, as it
seemed at the moment, ruined our hopes, while in
the end it had favoured them.  The unhappy woman,
fired, I believe by a genuine attachment to the
Duke of Strelsau, no less than by the dazzling
prospects which a dominion over him opened before
her eyes, had followed him at his request from
Paris to Ruritania.  He was a man of strong
passions, but of stronger will, and his cool head
ruled both.  He was content to take all and give
nothing.  When she arrived, she was not long in
finding that she had a rival in the Princess
Flavia; rendered desperate, she stood at nothing
which might give, or keep for her, her power over
the duke.  As I say, he took and gave not.
Simultaneously, Antoinette found herself entangled
in his audacious schemes.  Unwilling to abandon
him, bound to him by the chains of shame and hope,
yet she would not be a decoy, nor, at his bidding,
lure me to death.  Hence the letters of warning
she had written.  Whether the lines she sent to
Flavia were inspired by good or bad feeling, by
jealousy or by pity, I do not know; but here also
she served us well.  When the duke went to Zenda,
she accompanied him; and here for the first time
she learnt the full measure of his cruelty, and
was touched with compassion for the unfortunate
King.  From this time she was with us; yet, from
what she told me, I know that she still (as women
will) loved Michael, and trusted to gain his life,
if not his pardon, from the King, as the reward
for her assistance.  His triumph she did not
desire, for she loathed his crime, and loathed yet
more fiercely what would be the prize of it--his
marriage with his cousin, Princess Flavia.

At Zenda new forces came into play--the lust and
daring of young Rupert.  He was caught by her
beauty, perhaps; perhaps it was enough for him
that she belonged to another man, and that she
hated him.  For many days there had been quarrels
and ill will between him and the duke, and the
scene which I had witnessed in the duke's room was
but one of many.  Rupert's proposals to me, of
which she had, of course, been ignorant, in no way
surprised her when I related them; she had herself
warned Michael against Rupert, even when she was
calling on me to deliver her from both of them.
On this night, then, Rupert had determined to have
his will.  When she had gone to her room, he,
having furnished himself with a key to it, had
made his entrance.  Her cries had brought the
duke, and there in the dark room, while she
screamed, the men had fought; and Rupert, having
wounded his master with a mortal blow, had, on the
servants rushing in, escaped through the window as
I have described.  The duke's blood, spurting out,
had stained his opponent's shirt; but Rupert, not
knowing that he had dealt Michael his death, was
eager to finish the encounter.  How he meant to
deal with the other three of the band, I know not.
I dare say he did not think, for the killing of
Michael was not premeditated.  Antoinette, left
alone with the duke, had tried to stanch his
wound, and thus was she busied till he died; and
then, hearing Rupert's taunts, she had come forth
to avenge him.  Me she had not seen, nor did she
till I darted out of my ambush, and leapt after
Rupert into the moat.

The same moment found my friends on the scene.
They had reached the chateau in due time, and
waited ready by the door.  But Johann, swept with
the rest to the rescue of the duke, did not open
it; nay, he took a part against Rupert, putting
himself forward more bravely than any in his
anxiety to avert suspicion; and he had received a
wound, in the embrasure of the window.  Till
nearly half-past two Sapt waited; then, following
my orders, he had sent Fritz to search the banks
of the moat.  I was not there.  Hastening back,
Fritz told Sapt; and Sapt was for following orders
still, and riding at full speed back to
Tarlenheim; while Fritz would not hear of
abandoning me, let me have ordered what I would.
On this they disputed some few minutes; then Sapt,
persuaded by Fritz, detached a party under
Bernenstein to gallop back to Tarlenheim and bring
up the marshal, while the rest fell to on the
great door of the chateau.  For several minutes it
resisted them; then, just as Antoinette de Mauban
fired at Rupert of Hentzau on the bridge, they
broke in, eight of them in all:  and the first
door they came to was the door of Michael's room;
and Michael lay dead across the threshold, with a
sword-thrust through his breast.  Sapt cried out
at his death, as I had heard, and they rushed on
the servants; but these, in fear, dropped their
weapons, and Antoinette flung herself weeping at
Sapt's feet.  And all she cried was,that I had
been at the end of the bridge and leapt off.
"What of the prisoner?" asked Sapt; but she shook
her head.  Then Sapt and Fritz, with the gentlemen
behind them, crossed the bridge, slowly, warily,
and without noise; and Fritz stumbled over the
body of De Gautet in the way of the door.  They
felt him and found him dead.

Then they consulted, listening eagerly for any
sound from the cells below; but there came none,
and they were greatly afraid that the King's
guards had killed him, and having pushed his body
through the great pipe, had escaped the same way
themselves.  Yet, because I had been seen here,
they had still some hope (thus indeed Fritz, in
his friendship, told me); and going back to
Michael's body, pushing aside Antoinette, who
prayed by it, they found a key to the door which I
had locked, and opened the door.  The staircase
was dark, and they would not use a torch at first,
lest they should be more exposed to fire.  But
soon Fritz cried:  "The door down there is open!
See, there is light!" So they went on boldly, and
found none to oppose them.  And when they came to
the outer room and saw the Belgian, Bersonin,
lying dead, they thanked God, Sapt saying:  "Ay,
he has been here." Then rushing into the King's
cell, they found Detchard lying dead across the
dead physician, and the King on his back with his
chair by him.  And Fritz cried:  "He's dead!" and
Sapt drove all out of the room except Fritz, and
knelt down by the King; and, having learnt more of
wounds and the sign of death than I, he soon knew
that the King was not dead, nor, if properly
attended, would die.  And they covered his face
and carried him to Duke Michael's room, and laid
him there; and Antoinette rose from praying by the
body of the duke and went to bathe the King's head
and dress his wounds, till a doctor came.  And
Sapt, seeing I had been there, and having heard
Antoinette's story, sent Fritz to search the moat
and then the forest.  He dared send no one else.
And Fritz found my horse, and feared the worst.
Then, as I have told, he found me, guided by the
shout with which I had called on Rupert to stop
and face me.  And I think a man has never been
more glad to find his own brother alive than was
Fritz to come on me; so that, in love and anxiety
for me, he thought nothing of a thing so great as
would have been the death of Rupert Hentzau.  Yet,
had Fritz killed him, I should have grudged it.

The enterprise of the King's rescue being thus
prosperously concluded, it lay on Colonel Sapt to
secure secrecy as to the King ever having been in
need of rescue.  Antoinette de Mauban and Johann
the keeper (who, indeed, was too much hurt to be
wagging his tongue just now) were sworn to reveal
nothing; and Fritz went forth to find--not the
King, but the unnamed friend of the King, who had
lain in Zenda and flashed for a moment before the
dazed eyes of Duke Michael's servants on the
drawbridge.  The metamorphosis had happened; and
the King, wounded almost to death by the attacks
of the gaolers who guarded his friend, had at last
overcome them, and rested now, wounded but alive,
in Black Michael's own room in the Castle.  There
he had been carried, his face covered with a
cloak, from the cell; and thence orders issued,
that if his friend were found, he should be
brought directly and privately to the King, and
that meanwhile messengers should ride at full
speed to Tarlenheim, to tell Marshall Strakencz to
assure the princess of the King's safety and to
come himself with all speed to greet the King.
The princess was enjoined to remain at Tarlenheim,
and there await her cousin's coming or his further
injunctions.  Thus the King would come to his own
again, having wrought brave deeds, and escaped,
almost by a miracle, the treacherous assault of
his unnatural brother.

This ingenious arrangement of my long-headed old
friend prospered in every way, save where it
encountered a force that often defeats the most
cunning schemes.  I mean nothing else than the
pleasure of a woman.  For, let her cousin and
sovereign send what command he chose (or Colonel
Sapt chose for him), and let Marshal Strakencz
insist as he would, the Princess Flavia was in no
way minded to rest at Tarlenheim while her lover
lay wounded at Zenda; and when the Marshal, with a
small suite, rode forth from Tarlenheim on the way
to Zenda, the princess's carriage followed
immediately behind, and in this order they passed
through the town, where the report was already
rife that the King, going the night before to
remonstrate with his brother, in all friendliness,
for that he held one of the King's friends in
confinement in the Castle, had been most
traitorously set upon; that there had been a
desperate conflict; that the duke was slain with
several of his gentlemen; and that the King,
wounded as he was, had seized and held the Castle
of Zenda.  All of which talk made, as may be
supposed, a mighty excitement:  and the wires were
set in motion, and the tidings came to Strelsau
only just after orders had been sent thither to
parade the troops and overawe the dissatisfied
quarters of the town with a display of force.

Thus the Princess Flavia came to Zenda.  And as
she drove up the hill, with the Marshal riding by
the wheel and still imploring her to return in
obedience to the King's orders, Fritz von
Tarlenheim, with the prisoner of Zenda, came to
the edge of the forest.  I had revived from my
swoon, and walked, resting on Fritz's arm; and
looking out from the cover of the trees, I saw the
princess.  Suddenly understanding from a glance at
my companion's face that we must not meet her, I
sank on my knees behind a clump of bushes.  But
there was one whom we had forgotten, but who
followed us, and was not disposed to let slip the
chance of earning a smile and maybe a crown or
two; and, while we lay hidden, the little
farm-girl came by us and ran to the princess,
curtseying and crying:

"Madame, the King is here--in the bushes!  May I
guide you to him, madame?"

"Nonsense, child!" said old Strakencz; "the King
lies wounded in the Castle."

"Yes, sir, he's wounded, I know; but he's
there--with Count Fritz-- and not at the Castle,"
she persisted.

"Is he in two places, or are there two Kings?"
asked Flavia, bewildered.  "And how should he be
there?"

"He pursued a gentleman, madame, and they fought
till Count Fritz came; and the other gentleman
took my father's horse from me and rode away; but
the King is here with Count Fritz.  Why, madame,
is there another man in Ruritania like the King?"

"No, my child," said Flavia softly (I was told it
afterwards), and she smiled and gave the girl
money.  "I will go and see this gentleman," and
she rose to alight from the carriage.

But at this moment Sapt came riding from the
Castle, and, seeing the princess, made the best of
a bad job, and cried to her that the King was well
tended and in no danger.

"In the Castle?" she asked.

"Where else, madame?" said he, bowing.

"But this girl says he is yonder--with Count
Fritz."

Sapt turned his eyes on the child with an
incredulous smile.

"Every fine gentleman is a King to such," said he.

"Why, he's as like the King as one pea to another,
madame!" cried the girl, a little shaken but still
obstinate.

Sapt started round.  The old Marshal's face asked
unspoken questions.  Flavia's glance was no less
eloquent.  Suspicion spread quick.

"I'll ride myself and see this man," said Sapt
hastily.

"Nay, I'll come myself," said the princess.

"Then come alone," he whispered.

And she, obedient to the strange hinting in his
face, prayed the Marshal and the rest to wait; and
she and Sapt came on foot towards where we lay,
Sapt waving to the farm-girl to keep at a
distance.  And when I saw them coming, I sat in a
sad heap on the ground, and buried my face in my
hands.  I could not look at her.  Fritz knelt by
me, laying his hand on my shoulder.

"Speak low, whatever you say," I heard Sapt
whisper as they came up; and the next thing I
heard was a low cry--half of joy, half of fear--
from the princess:

"It is he!  Are you hurt?"

And she fell on the ground by me, and gently
pulled my hands away; but I kept my eyes to the
ground.

"It is the King!" she said.  "Pray, Colonel Sapt,
tell me where lay the wit of the joke you played
on me?"

We answered none of us; we three were silent
before her.  Regardless of them, she threw her
arms round my neck and kissed me.  Then Sapt spoke
in a low hoarse whisper:

"It is not the King.  Don't kiss him; he's not the
King."

She drew back for a moment; then, with an arm
still round my neck, she asked, in superb
indignation:

"Do I not know my love?  Rudolf my love!"

"It is not the King," said old Sapt again; and a
sudden sob broke from tender-hearted Fritz.

It was the sob that told her no comedy was afoot.

"He is the King!" she cried.  "It is the King's
face--the King's ring-- my ring!  It is my love!"

"Your love, madame," said old Sapt, "but not the
King.  The King is there in the Castle.  This
gentleman--"

"Look at me, Rudolf!  look at me!" she cried,
taking my face between her hands.  "Why do you let
them torment me?  Tell me what it means!"

Then I spoke, gazing into her eyes.

"God forgive me, madame!" I said.  "I am not the
King!"

I felt her hands clutch my cheeks.  She gazed at
me as never man's face was scanned yet.  And I,
silent again, saw wonder born, and doubt grow, and
terror spring to life as she looked.  And very
gradually the grasp of her hands slackened; she
turned to Sapt, to Fritz, and back to me:  then
suddenly she reeled forward and fell in my arms;
and with a great cry of pain I gathered her to me
and kissed her lips.  Sapt laid his hand on my
arm.  I looked up in his face.  And I laid her
softly on the ground, and stood up, looking on
her, cursing heaven that young Rupert's sword had
spared me for this sharper pang.




CHAPTER 21


If love were all!


It was night, and I was in the cell wherein the
King had lain in the Castle of Zenda.  The great
pipe that Rupert of Hentzau had nicknamed "Jacob's
Ladder" was gone, and the lights in the room
across the moat twinkled in the darkness.  All was
still; the din and clash of strife were gone.  I
had spent the day hidden in the forest, from the
time when Fritz had led me off, leaving Sapt with
the princess.  Under cover of dusk, muffled up, I
had been brought to the Castle and lodged where I
now lay.  Though three men had died there--two of
them by my hand-- I was not troubled by ghosts.  I
had thrown myself on a pallet by the window, and
was looking out on the black water; Johann, the
keeper, still pale from his wound, but not much
hurt besides, had brought me supper.  He told me
that the King was doing well, that he had seen the
princess; that she and he, Sapt and Fritz, had
been long together.  Marshal Strakencz was gone to
Strelsau; Black Michael lay in his coffin, and
Antoinette de Mauban watched by him; had I not
heard, from the chapel, priests singing mass for
him?

Outside there were strange rumours afloat.  Some
said that the prisoner of Zenda was dead; some,
that he had vanished yet alive; some, that he was
a friend who had served the King well in some
adventure in England; others, that he had
discovered the Duke's plots, and had therefore
been kidnapped by him.  One or two shrewd fellows
shook their heads and said only that they would
say nothing, but they had suspicions that more was
to be known than was known, if Colonel Sapt would
tell all he knew.

Thus Johann chattered till I sent him away and lay
there alone, thinking, not of the future, but--as
a man is wont to do when stirring things have
happened to him--rehearsing the events of the past
weeks, and wondering how strangely they had fallen
out.  And above me, in the stillness of the night,
I heard the standards flapping against their
poles, for Black Michael's banner hung there
half-mast high, and above it the royal flag of
Ruritania, floating for one night more over my
head.  Habit grows so quick, that only by an
effort did I recollect that it floated no longer
for me.

Presently Fritz von Tarlenheim came into the room.
I was standing then by the window; the glass was
opened, and I was idly fingering the cement which
clung to the masonry where "Jacob's Ladder" had
been.  He told me briefly that the King wanted me,
and together we crossed the drawbridge and entered
the room that had been Black Michael's.

The King was lying there in bed; our doctor from
Tarlenheim was in attendance on him, and whispered
to me that my visit must be brief.  The King held
out his hand and shook mine.  Fritz and the doctor
withdrew to the window.

I took the King's ring from my finger and placed
it on his.

"I have tried not to dishonour it, sire," said I.

"I can't talk much to you," he said, in a weak
voice.  "I have had a great fight with Sapt and
the Marshal--for we have told the Marshal
everything.  I wanted to take you to Strelsau and
keep you with me, and tell everyone of what you
had done; and you would have been my best and
nearest friend, Cousin Rudolf.  But they tell me I
must not, and that the secret must be kept-- if
kept it can be."

"They are right, sire.  Let me go.  My work here
is done."

"Yes, it is done, as no man but you could have
done it.  When they see me again, I shall have my
beard on; I shall--yes, faith, I shall be wasted
with sickness.  They will not wonder that the King
looks changed in face.  Cousin, I shall try to let
them find him changed in nothing else.  You have
shown me how to play the King."

"Sire," said I.  "I can take no praise from you.
It is by the narrowest grace of God that I was not
a worse traitor than your brother."

He turned inquiring eyes on me; but a sick man
shrinks from puzzles, and he had no strength to
question me.  His glance fell on Flavia's ring,
which I wore.  I thought he would question me
about it; but, after fingering it idly, he let his
head fall on his pillow.

"I don't know when I shall see you again," he said
faintly, almost listlessly.

"If I can ever serve you again, sire," I answered.

His eyelids closed.  Fritz came with the doctor.
I kissed the King's hand, and let Fritz lead me
away.  I have never seen the King since.

Outside, Fritz turned, not to the right, back
towards the drawbridge, but to the left, and
without speaking led me upstairs, through a
handsome corridor in the chateau.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

Looking away from me, Fritz answered:

"She has sent for you.  When it is over, come back
to the bridge.  I'll wait for you there."

"What does she want?" said I, breathing quickly.

He shook his head.

"Does she know everything?"

"Yes, everything."

He opened a door, and gently pushing me in, closed
it behind me.  I found myself in a drawing-room,
small and richly furnished.  At first I thought
that I was alone, for the light that came from a
pair of shaded candles on the mantelpiece was very
dim.  But presently I discerned a woman's figure
standing by the window.  I knew it was the
princess, and I walked up to her, fell on one
knee, and carried the hand that hung by her side
to my lips.  She neither moved nor spoke.  I rose
to my feet, and, piercing the gloom with my eager
eyes, saw her pale face and the gleam of her hair,
and before I knew, I spoke softly:

"Flavia!"

She trembled a little, and looked round.  Then she
darted to me, taking hold of me.

"Don't stand, don't stand!  No, you mustn't!
You're hurt!  Sit down--here, here!"

She made me sit on a sofa, and put her hand on my
forehead.

"How hot your head is," she said, sinking on her
knees by me.  Then she laid her head against me,
and I heard her murmur:  "My darling, how hot your
head is!"

Somehow love gives even to a dull man the
knowledge of his lover's heart.  I had come to
humble myself and pray pardon for my presumption;
but what I said now was:

"I love you with all my heart and soul!"

For what troubled and shamed her?  Not her love
for me, but the fear that I had counterfeited the
lover as I had acted the King, and taken her
kisses with a smothered smile.

"With all my life and heart," said I, as she clung
to me.  "Always, from the first moment I saw you
in the Cathedral!  There has been but one woman in
the world to me--and there will be no other.  But
God forgive me the wrong I've done you!"

"They made you do it!" she said quickly; and she
added, raising her head and looking in my eyes:
"It might have made no difference if I'd known it.
It was always you, never the King!"

"I meant to tell you," said I.  "I was going to on
the night of the ball in Strelsau, when Sapt
interrupted me.  After that, I couldn't--I
couldn't risk losing you before--before--I must!
My darling, for you I nearly left the King to
die!"

"I know, I know!  What are we to do now, Rudolf?"

I put my arm round her and held her up while I
said:

"I am going away tonight."

"Ah, no, no!" she cried.  "Not tonight!"

"I must go tonight, before more people have seen
me.  And how would you have me stay, sweetheart,
except--?"

"If I could come with you!" she whispered very
low.

"My God!" said I roughly, "don't talk about that!"
and I thrust her a little back from me.

"Why not?  I love you.  You are as good a
gentleman as the King!"

Then I was false to all that I should have held
by.  For I caught her in my arms and prayed her,
in words that I will not write, to come with me,
daring all Ruritania to take her from me.  And for
a while she listened, with wondering, dazzled
eyes.  But as her eyes looked on me, I grew
ashamed, and my voice died away in broken murmurs
and stammerings, and at last I was silent.

She drew herself away from me and stood against
the wall, while I sat on the edge of the sofa,
trembling in every limb, knowing what I had
done--loathing it, obstinate not to undo it.  So
we rested a long time.

"I am mad!" I said sullenly.

"I love your madness, dear," she answered.

Her face was away from me, but I caught the
sparkle of a tear on her cheek.  I clutched the
sofa with my hand and held myself there.

"Is love the only thing?" she asked, in low, sweet
tones that seemed to bring a calm even to my wrung
heart.  "If love were the only thing, I would
follow you--in rags, if need be--to the world's
end; for you hold my heart in the hollow of your
hand!  But is love the only thing?"

I made no answer.  It gives me shame now to think
that I would not help her.

She came near me and laid her hand on my shoulder.
I put my hand up and held hers.

"I know people write and talk as if it were.
Perhaps, for some, Fate lets it be.  Ah, if I were
one of them!  But if love had been the only thing,
you would have let the King die in his cell."

I kissed her hand.

"Honour binds a woman too, Rudolf.  My honour lies
in being true to my country and my House.  I don't
know why God has let me love you; but I know that
I must stay."

Still I said nothing; and she, pausing a while,
then went on:

"Your ring will always be on my finger, your heart
in my heart, the touch of your lips on mine.  But
you must go and I must stay.  Perhaps I must do
what it kills me to think of doing."

I knew what she meant, and a shiver ran through
me.  But I could not utterly fail her.  I rose and
took her hand.

"Do what you will, or what you must," I said.  "I
think God shows His purposes to such as you.  My
part is lighter; for your ring shall be on my
finger and your heart in mine, and no touch save
of your lips will ever be on mine.  So, may God
comfort you, my darling!"

There struck on our ears the sound of singing.
The priests in the chapel were singing masses for
the souls of those who lay dead.  They seemed to
chant a requiem over our buried joy, to pray
forgiveness for our love that would not die.  The
soft, sweet, pitiful music rose and fell as we
stood opposite one another, her hands in mine.

"My queen and my beauty!" said I.

"My lover and true knight!" she said.  "Perhaps we
shall never see one another again.  Kiss me, my
dear, and go!"

I kissed her as she bade me; but at the last she
clung to me, whispering nothing but my name, and
that over and over again --and again--and again;
and then I left her.

Rapidly I walked down to the bridge.  Sapt and
Fritz were waiting for me.  Under their directions
I changed my dress, and muffling my face, as I had
done more than once before, I mounted with them at
the door of the Castle, and we three rode through
the night and on to the breaking day, and found
ourselves at a little roadside station just over
the border of Ruritania.  The train was not quite
due, and I walked with them in a meadow by a
little brook while we waited for it.  They
promised to send me all news; they overwhelmed me
with kindness--even old Sapt was touched to
gentleness, while Fritz was half unmanned.  I
listened in a kind of dream to all they said.
"Rudolf!  Rudolf!  Rudolf!" still rang in my
ears--a burden of sorrow and of love.  At last
they saw that I could not heed them, and we walked
up and down in silence, till Fritz touched me on
the arm, and I saw, a mile or more away, the blue
smoke of the train.  Then I held out a hand to
each of them.

"We are all but half-men this morning," said I,
smiling.  "But we have been men, eh, Sapt and
Fritz, old friends?  We have run a good course
between us."

"We have defeated traitors and set the King firm
on his throne," said Sapt.

Then Fritz von Tarlenheim suddenly, before I could
discern his purpose or stay him, uncovered his
head and bent as he used to do, and kissed my
hand; and as I snatched it away, he said, trying
to laugh:

"Heaven doesn't always make the right men kings!"

Old Sapt twisted his mouth as he wrung my hand.

"The devil has his share in most things," said he.

The people at the station looked curiously at the
tall man with the muffled face, but we took no
notice of their glances.  I stood with my two
friends and waited till the train came up to us.
Then we shook hands again, saying nothing; and
both this time--and, indeed, from old Sapt it
seemed strange--bared their heads, and so stood
still till the train bore me away from their
sight.  So that it was thought some great man
travelled privately for his pleasure from the
little station that morning; whereas, in truth it
was only I, Rudolf Rassendyll, an English
gentleman, a cadet of a good house, but a man of
no wealth nor position, nor of much rank.  They
would have been disappointed to know that.  Yet
had they known all they would have looked more
curiously still.  For, be I what I might now, I
had been for three months a King, which, if not a
thing to be proud of, is at least an experience to
have undergone.  Doubtless I should have thought
more of it, had there not echoed through the air,
from the towers of Zenda that we were leaving far
away, into my ears and into my heart the cry of a
woman's love--"Rudolf!  Rudolf!  Rudolf!"

Hark!  I hear it now!




CHAPTER 22


Present, Past--and Future?


The details of my return home can have but little
interest.  I went straight to the Tyrol and spent
a quiet fortnight-- mostly on my back, for a
severe chill developed itself; and I was also the
victim of a nervous reaction, which made me weak
as a baby.  As soon as I had reached my quarters,
I sent an apparently careless postcard to my
brother, announcing my good health and prospective
return.  That would serve to satisfy the inquiries
as to my whereabouts, which were probably still
vexing the Prefect of the Police of Strelsau.  I
let my moustache and imperial grow again; and as
hair comes quickly on my face, they were
respectable, though not luxuriant, by the time
that I landed myself in Paris and called on my
friend George Featherly.  My interview with him
was chiefly remarkable for the number of unwilling
but necessary falsehoods that I told; and I
rallied him unmercifully when he told me that he
had made up his mind that I had gone in the track
of Madame de Mauban to Strelsau.  The lady, it
appeared, was back in Paris, but was living in
great seclusion--a fact for which gossip found no
difficulty in accounting.  Did not all the world
know of the treachery and death of Duke Michael?
Nevertheless, George bade Bertram Bertrand be of
good cheer, "for," said he flippantly, "a live
poet is better than a dead duke." Then he turned
on me and asked:

"What have you been doing to your moustache?"

"To tell the truth," I answered, assuming a sly
air, "a man now and then has reasons for wishing
to alter his appearance.  But it's coming on very
well again."

"What?  Then I wasn't so far out!  If not the fair
Antoinette, there was a charmer?"

"There is always a charmer," said I,
sententiously.

But George would not be satisfied till he had
wormed out of me (he took much pride in his
ingenuity) an absolutely imaginary love-affair,
attended with the proper soupcon of scandal, which
had kept me all this time in the peaceful regions
of the Tyrol.  In return for this narrative,
George regaled me with a great deal of what he
called "inside information" (known only to
diplomatists), as to the true course of events in
Ruritania, the plots and counterplots.  In his
opinion, he told me, with a significant nod, there
was more to be said for Black Michael than the
public supposed; and he hinted at a well-founded
suspicion that the mysterious prisoner of Zenda,
concerning whom a good many paragraphs had
appeared, was not a man at all, but (here I had
much ado not to smile) a woman disguised as a man;
and that strife between the King and his brother
for this imaginary lady's favour was at the bottom
of their quarrel.

"Perhaps it was Madame de Mauban herself," I
suggested.

"No!" said George decisively, "Antoinette de
Mauban was jealous of her, and betrayed the duke
to the King for that reason.  And, to confirm what
I say, it's well known that the Princess Flavia is
now extremely cold to the King, after having been
most affectionate."

At this point I changed the subject, and escaped
from George's "inspired" delusions.  But if
diplomatists never know anything more than they
had succeeded in finding out in this instance,
they appear to me to be somewhat expensive
luxuries.

While in Paris I wrote to Antoinette, though I did
not venture to call upon her.  I received in
return a very affecting letter, in which she
assured me that the King's generosity and
kindness, no less than her regard for me, bound
her conscience to absolute secrecy.  She expressed
the intention of settling in the country, and
withdrawing herself entirely from society.
Whether she carried out her designs, I have never
heard; but as I have not met her, or heard news of
her up to this time, it is probable that she did.
There is no doubt that she was deeply attached to
the Duke of Strelsau; and her conduct at the time
of his death proved that no knowledge of the man's
real character was enough to root her regard for
him out of her heart.

I had one more battle left to fight--a battle that
would, I knew, be severe, and was bound to end in
my complete defeat.  Was I not back from the
Tyrol, without having made any study of its
inhabitants, institutions, scenery, fauna, flora,
or other features?  Had I not simply wasted my
time in my usual frivolous, good-for-nothing way?
That was the aspect of the matter which, I was
obliged to admit, would present itself to my
sister-in-law; and against a verdict based on such
evidence, I had really no defence to offer.  It
may be supposed, then, that I presented myself in
Park Lane in a shamefaced, sheepish fashion.  On
the whole, my reception was not so alarming as I
had feared.  It turned out that I had done, not
what Rose wished, but--the next best thing-- what
she prophesied.  She had declared that I should
make no notes, record no observations,gather no
materials.  My brother, on the other hand, had
been weak enough to maintain that a serious
resolve had at length animated me.

When I returned empty-handed, Rose was so occupied
in triumphing over Burlesdon that she let me down
quite easily, devoting the greater part of her
reproaches to my failure to advertise my friends
of my whereabouts.

"We've wasted a lot of time trying to find you,"
she said.

"I know you have," said I.  "Half our ambassadors
have led weary lives on my account.  George
Featherly told me so.  But why should you have
been anxious?  I can take care of myself."

"Oh, it wasn't that," she cried scornfully, "but I
wanted to tell you about Sir Jacob Borrodaile.
You know, he's got an Embassy --at least, he will
have in a month--and he wrote to say he hoped you
would go with him."

"Where's he going to?"

"He's going to succeed Lord Topham at Strelsau,"
said she.  "You couldn't have a nicer place, short
of Paris."

"Strelsau!  H'm!" said I, glancing at my brother.

"Oh, THAT doesn't matter!" exclaimed Rose
impatiently.  "Now, you will go, won't you?"

"I don't know that I care about it!"

"Oh, you're too exasperating!"

"And I don't think I can go to Strelsau.  My dear
Rose, would it be--suitable?"

"Oh, nobody remembers that horrid old story now."

Upon this, I took out of my pocket a portrait of
the King of Ruritania.  It had been taken a month
or two before he ascended the throne.  She could
not miss my point when I said, putting it into her
hands:

"In case you've not seen, or not noticed, a
picture of Rudolf V, there he is.  Don't you think
they might recall the story, if I appeared at the
Court of Ruritania?"

My sister-in-law looked at the portrait, and then
at me.

"Good gracious!" she said, and flung the
photograph down on the table.

"What do you say, Bob?" I asked.

Burlesdon got up, went to a corner of the room,
and searched in a heap of newspapers.  Presently
he came back with a copy of the Illustrated London
News.  Opening the paper, he displayed a
double-page engraving of the Coronation of Rudolf
V at Strelsau.  The photograph and the picture he
laid side by side.  I sat at the table fronting
them; and, as I looked, I grew absorbed.  My eye
travelled from my own portrait to Sapt, to
Strakencz, to the rich robes of the Cardinal, to
Black Michael's face, to the stately figure of the
princess by his side.  Long I looked and eagerly.
I was roused by my brother's hand on my shoulder.
He was gazing down at me with a puzzled
expression.

"It's a remarkable likeness, you see," said I.  "I
really think I had better not go to Ruritania."

Rose, though half convinced, would not abandon her
position.

"It's just an excuse," she said pettishly.  "You
don't want to do anything.  Why, you might become
an ambassador!"

"I don't think I want to be an ambassador," said
I.

"It's more than you ever will be," she retorted.

That is very likely true, but it is not more than
I have been.

The idea of being an ambassador could scarcely
dazzle me.  I had been a king!

So pretty Rose left us in dudgeon; and Burlesdon,
lighting a cigarette, looked at me still with that
curious gaze.

"That picture in the paper--" he said.

"Well, what of it?  It shows that the King of
Ruritania and your humble servant are as like as
two peas."

My brother shook his head.

"I suppose so," he said.  "But I should know you
from the man in the photograph."

"And not from the picture in the paper?"

"I should know the photograph from the picture:
the picture's very like the photograph, but--"

"Well?"

"It's more like you!" said my brother.

My brother is a good man and true--so that, for
all that he is a married man and mighty fond of
his wife, he should know any secret of mine.  But
this secret was not mine, and I could not tell it
to him.

"I don't think it's so much like me as the
photograph," said I boldly.  "But, anyhow, Bob, I
won't go to Strelsau."

"No, don't go to Strelsau, Rudolf," said he.

And whether he suspects anything, or has a glimmer
of the truth, I do not know.  If he has, he keeps
it to himself, and he and I never refer to it.
And we let Sir Jacob Borrodaile find another
attache.

Since all these events whose history I have set
down happened I have lived a very quiet life at a
small house which I have taken in the country.
The ordinary ambitions and aims of men in my
position seem to me dull and unattractive.  I have
little fancy for the whirl of society, and none
for the jostle of politics.  Lady Burlesdon
utterly despairs of me; my neighbours think me an
indolent, dreamy, unsociable fellow.  Yet I am a
young man; and sometimes I have a fancy--the
superstitious would call it a presentiment--that
my part in life is not yet altogether played;
that, somehow and some day, I shall mix again in
great affairs, I shall again spin policies in a
busy brain, match my wits against my enemies',
brace my muscles to fight a good fight and strike
stout blows.  Such is the tissue of my thoughts
as, with gun or rod in hand, I wander through the
woods or by the side of the stream.  Whether the
fancy will be fulfilled, I cannot tell--still less
whether the scene that, led by memory, I lay for
my new exploits will be the true one--for I love
to see myself once again in the crowded streets of
Strelsau, or beneath the frowning keep of the
Castle of Zenda.

Thus led, my broodings leave the future, and turn
back on the past.  Shapes rise before me in long
array--the wild first revel with the King, the
rush with my brave tea-table, the night in the
moat, the pursuit in the forest:  my friends and
my foes, the people who learnt to love and honour
me, the desperate men who tried to kill me.  And,
from amidst these last, comes one who alone of all
of them yet moves on earth, though where I know
not, yet plans (as I do not doubt) wickedness, yet
turns women's hearts to softness and men's to fear
and hate.  Where is young Rupert of Hentzau--the
boy who came so nigh to beating me?  When his name
comes into my head, I feel my hand grip and the
blood move quicker through my veins:  and the hint
of Fate--the presentiment-- seems to grow stronger
and more definite, and to whisper insistently in
my ear that I have yet a hand to play with young
Rupert; therefore I exercise myself in arms, and
seek to put off the day when the vigour of youth
must leave me.

One break comes every year in my quiet life.  Then
I go to Dresden, and there I am met by my dear
friend and companion, Fritz von Tarlenheim.  Last
time, his pretty wife Helga came, and a lusty
crowing baby with her.  And for a week Fritz and I
are together, and I hear all of what falls out in
Strelsau; and in the evenings, as we walk and
smoke together, we talk of Sapt, and of the King,
and often of young Rupert; and, as the hours grow
small, at last we speak of Flavia.  For every year
Fritz carries with him to Dresden a little box; in
it lies a red rose, and round the stalk of the
rose is a slip of paper with the words written:
"Rudolf--Flavia--always." And the like I send back
by him.  That message, and the wearing of the
rings, are all that now bind me and the Queen of
Ruritania.  Far--nobler, as I hold her, for the
act--she has followed where her duty to her
country and her House led her, and is the wife of
the King, uniting his subjects to him by the love
they bear to her, giving peace and quiet days to
thousands by her self-sacrifice.  There are
moments when I dare not think of it, but there are
others when I rise in spirit to where she ever
dwells; then I can thank God that I love the
noblest lady in the world, the most gracious and
beautiful, and that there was nothing in my love
that made her fall short in her high duty.

Shall I see her face again--the pale face and the
glorious hair?  Of that I know nothing; Fate has
no hint, my heart no presentiment.  I do not know.
In this world, perhaps--nay, it is likely--never.
And can it be that somewhere, in a manner whereof
our flesh-bound minds have no apprehension, she
and I will be together again, with nothing to come
between us, nothing to forbid our love?  That I
know not, nor wiser heads than mine.  But if it be
never-- if I can never hold sweet converse again
with her, or look upon her face, or know from her
her love; why, then, this side the grave, I will
live as becomes the man whom she loves; and, for
the other side, I must pray a dreamless sleep.