PART II

I.

BARNEY RETURNS TO LUTHA

“What’s the matter, Vic?” asked Barney Custer of his sister. “You look

peeved.”

“I am peeved,” replied the girl, smiling. “I am terribly peeved. I

don’t want to play bridge this afternoon. I want to go motoring with

Lieutenant Butzow. This is his last day with us.”

“Yes. I know it is, and I hate to think of it,” replied Barney; “but

why in the world do you have to play bridge if you don’t want to?”

“I promised Margaret that I’d go. They’re short one, and she’s coming

after me in her car.”

“Where are you going to play—at the champion lady bridge player’s on

Fourth Street?” asked Barney, grinning.

His sister answered with a nod and a smile. “Where you brought down the

wrath of the lady champion upon your head the other night when you were

letting your mind wander across to Lutha and the Old Forest, instead of

paying attention to the game,” she added.

“Well, cheer up, Vic,” cried her brother. “Bert’ll probably set fire to

the car, the way he did to their first one, and then you won’t have to

go.”

“Oh, yes, I would; Margaret would send him after me in that

awful-looking, unwashed Ford runabout of his,” answered the girl.

“And then you WOULD go,” said Barney.

“You bet I would,” laughed Victoria. “I’d go in a wheelbarrow with

Bert.”

But she didn’t have to; and after she had driven off with her chum,

Barney and Butzow strolled down through the little city of Beatrice to

the corn mill in which the former was interested.

“I’m mighty sorry that you have to leave us, Butzow,” said Barney’s

partner. “It’s bad enough to lose you, but I’m afraid it will mean the

loss of Barney, too. He’s been hunting for some excuse to get back to

Lutha, and with you there and a war in sight I’m afraid nothing can

hold him.”

“I don’t know but that it may be just as well for my friends here that

I leave,” said Butzow seriously. “I did not tell you, Barney, all there

is in this letter”—he tapped his breastpocket, where the

foreign-looking envelope reposed with its contents.

Custer looked at him inquiringly.

“Besides saying that war between Austria and Serbia seems unavoidable

and that Lutha doubtless will be drawn into it, my informant warns me

that Leopold had sent emissaries to America to search for you, Barney,

and myself. What his purpose may be my friend does not know, but he

warns us to be upon our guard. Von der Tann wants me to return to

Lutha. He has promised to protect me, and with the country in danger

there is nothing else for me to do. I must go.”

“I wish I could go with you,” said Barney. “If it wasn’t for this

dinged old mill I would; but Bert wants to go away this summer, and as

I have been away most of the time for the past two years, it’s up to me

to stay.”

As the three men talked the afternoon wore on. Heavy clouds gathered in

the sky; a storm was brewing. Outside, a man, skulking behind a box car

on the siding, watched the entrance through which the three had gone.

He watched the workmen, and as quitting time came and he saw them

leaving for their homes he moved more restlessly, transferring the

package which he held from one hand to another many times, yet always

gingerly.

At last all had left. The man started from behind the box car, only to

jump back as the watchman appeared around the end of one of the

buildings. He watched the guardian of the property make his rounds; he

saw him enter his office, and then he crept forward toward the

building, holding his queer package in his right hand.

In the office the watchman came upon the three friends. At sight of him

they looked at one another in surprise.

“Why, what time is it?” exclaimed Custer, and as he looked at his watch

he rose with a laugh. “Late to dinner again,” he cried. “Come on, we’ll

go out this other way.” And with a cheery good night to the watchman

Barney and his friends hastened from the building.

Upon the opposite side the stranger approached the doorway to the mill.

The rain was falling in blinding sheets. Ominously the thunder roared.

Vivid flashes of lightning shot the heavens. The watchman, coming

suddenly from the doorway, his hat brim pulled low over his eyes,

passed within a couple of paces of the stranger without seeing him.

Five minutes later there was a blinding glare accompanied by a

deafening roar. It was as though nature had marshaled all her forces in

one mighty, devastating effort. At the same instant the walls of the

great mill burst asunder, a nebulous mass of burning gas shot

heavenward, and then the flames settled down to complete the

destruction of the ruin.

It was the following morning that Victoria and Barney Custer, with

Lieutenant Butzow and Custer’s partner, stood contemplating the

smoldering wreckage.

“And to think,” said Barney, “that yesterday this muss was the largest

corn mill west of anywhere. I guess we can both take vacations now,

Bert.”

“Who would have thought that a single bolt of lightning could have

resulted in such havoc?” mused Victoria.

“Who would?” agreed Lieutenant Butzow, and then, with a sudden

narrowing of his eyes and a quick glance at Barney, “if it WAS

lightning.”

The American looked at the Luthanian. “You think—” he started.

“I don’t dare think,” replied Butzow, “because of the fear of what this

may mean to you and Miss Victoria if it was not lightning that

destroyed the mill. I shouldn’t have spoken of it but that it may urge

you to greater caution, which I cannot but think is most necessary

since the warning I received from Lutha.”

“Why should Leopold seek to harm me now?” asked Barney. “It has been

almost two years since you and I placed him upon his throne, only to be

rewarded with threats and hatred. In that time neither of us has

returned to Lutha nor in any way conspired against the king. I cannot

fathom his motives.”

“There is the Princess Emma von der Tann,” Butzow reminded him. “She

still repulses him. He may think that, with you removed definitely and

permanently, all will then be plain sailing for him in that direction.

Evidently he does not know the princess.”

An hour later they were all bidding Butzow good-bye at the station.

Victoria Custer was genuinely grieved to see him go, for she liked this

soldierly young officer of the Royal Horse Guards immensely.

“You must come back to America soon,” she urged.

He looked down at her from the steps of the moving train. There was

something in his expression that she had never seen there before.

“I want to come back soon,” he answered, “to—to Beatrice,” and he

flushed and smiled at his own stumbling tongue.

For about a week Barney Custer moped disconsolately, principally about

the ruins of the corn mill. He was in everyone’s way and accomplished

nothing.

“I was never intended for a captain of industry,” he confided to his

partner for the hundredth time. “I wish some excuse would pop up to

which I might hang a reason for beating it to Europe. There’s something

doing there. Nearly everybody has declared war upon everybody else, and

here I am stagnating in peace. I’d even welcome a tornado.”

His excuse was to come sooner than he imagined. That night, after the

other members of his family had retired, Barney sat smoking within a

screened porch off the living-room. His thoughts were upon a trim

little figure in riding togs, as he had first seen it nearly two years

before, clinging desperately to a runaway horse upon the narrow

mountain road above Tafelberg.

He lived that thrilling experience through again as he had many times

before. He even smiled as he recalled the series of events that had

resulted from his resemblance to the mad king of Lutha.

They had come to a culmination at the time when the king, whom Barney

had placed upon a throne at the risk of his own life, discovered that

his savior loved the girl to whom the king had been betrothed since

childhood and that the girl returned the American’s love even after she

knew that he had but played the part of a king.

Barney’s cigar, forgotten, had long since died out. Not even its former

fitful glow proclaimed his presence upon the porch, whose black shadows

completely enveloped him. Before him stretched a wide acreage of lawn,

tree dotted at the side of the house. Bushes hid the stone wall that

marked the boundary of the Custer grounds and extended here and there

out upon the sward among the trees. The night was moonless but clear. A

faint light pervaded the scene.

Barney sat staring straight ahead, but his gaze did not stop upon the

familiar objects of the foreground. Instead it spanned two continents

and an ocean to rest upon the little spot of woodland and rugged

mountain and lowland that is Lutha. It was with an effort that the man

suddenly focused his attention upon that which lay directly before him.

A shadow among the trees had moved!

Barney Custer sat perfectly still, but now he was suddenly alert and

watchful. Again the shadow moved where no shadow should be moving. It

crossed from the shade of one tree to another. Barney came cautiously

to his feet. Silently he entered the house, running quickly to a side

door that opened upon the grounds. As he drew it back its hinges gave

forth no sound. Barney looked toward the spot where he had seen the

shadow. Again he saw it scuttle hurriedly beneath another tree nearer

the house. This time there was no doubt. It was a man!

Directly before the door where Barney stood was a pergola, ivy-covered.

Behind this he slid, and, running its length, came out among the trees

behind the night prowler. Now he saw him distinctly. The fellow was

bearded, and in his right hand he carried a package. Instantly Barney

recalled Butzow’s comment upon the destruction of the mill—“if it WAS

lightning!”

Cold sweat broke from every pore of his body. His mother and father

were there in the house, and Vic—all sleeping peacefully. He ran

quickly toward the menacing figure, and as he did so he saw the other

halt behind a great tree and strike a match. In the glow of the flame

he saw it touch close to the package that the fellow held, and then he

was upon him.

There was a brief and terrific struggle. The stranger hurled the

package toward the house. Barney caught him by the throat, beating him

heavily in the face; and then, realizing what the package was, he

hurled the fellow from him, and sprang toward the hissing and

sputtering missile where it lay close to the foundation wall of the

house, though in the instant of his close contact with the man he had

recognized through the disguising beard the features of Captain Ernst

Maenck, the principal tool of Peter of Blentz.

Quick though Barney was to reach the bomb and extinguish the fuse,

Maenck had disappeared before he returned to search for him; and,

though he roused the gardener and chauffeur and took turns with them in

standing guard the balance of the night, the would-be assassin did not

return.

There was no question in Barney Custer’s mind as to whom the bomb was

intended for. That Maenck had hurled it toward the house after Barney

had seized him was merely the result of accident and the man’s desire

to get the death-dealing missile as far from himself as possible before

it exploded. That it would have wrecked the house in the hope of

reaching him, had he not fortunately interfered, was too evident to the

American to be questioned.

And so he decided before the night was spent to put himself as far from

his family as possible, lest some future attempt upon his life might

endanger theirs. Then, too, righteous anger and a desire for revenge

prompted his decision. He would run Maenck to earth and have an

accounting with him. It was evident that his life would not be worth a

farthing so long as the fellow was at liberty.

Before dawn he swore the gardener and chauffeur to silence, and at

breakfast announced his intention of leaving that day for New York to

seek a commission as correspondent with an old classmate, who owned the

New York Evening National. At the hotel Barney inquired of the

proprietor relative to a bearded stranger, but the man had had no one

of that description registered. Chance, however, gave him a clue. His

roadster was in a repair shop, and as he stopped in to get it he

overheard a conversation that told him all he wanted to know. As he

stood talking with the foreman a dust-covered automobile pulled into

the garage.

“Hello, Bill,” called the foreman to the driver. “Where you been so

early?”

“Took a guy to Lincoln,” replied the other. “He was in an awful hurry.

I bet we broke all the records for that stretch of road this morning—I

never knew the old boat had it in her.”

“Who was it?” asked Barney.

“I dunno,” replied the driver. “Talked like a furriner, and looked the

part. Bushy black beard. Said he was a German army officer, an’ had to

beat it back on account of the war. Seemed to me like he was mighty

anxious to get back there an’ be killed.”

Barney waited to hear no more. He did not even go home to say good-bye

to his family. Instead he leaped into his gray roadster—a later model

of the one he had lost in Lutha—and the last that Beatrice, Nebraska,

saw of him was a whirling cloud of dust as he raced north out of town

toward Lincoln.

He was five minutes too late into the capital city to catch the

eastbound limited that Maenck must have taken; but he caught the next

through train for Chicago, and the second day thereafter found him in

New York. There he had little difficulty in obtaining the desired

credentials from his newspaper friend, especially since Barney offered

to pay all his own expenses and donate to the paper anything he found

time to write.

Passenger steamers were still sailing, though irregularly, and after

scanning the passenger-lists of three he found the name he sought.

“Captain Ernst Maenck, Lutha.” So he had not been mistaken, after all.

It was Maenck he had apprehended on his father’s grounds. Evidently the

man had little fear of being followed, for he had made no effort to

hide his identity in booking passage for Europe.

The steamer he had caught had sailed that very morning. Barney was not

so sorry, after all, for he had had time during his trip from Beatrice

to do considerable thinking, and had found it rather difficult to

determine just what to do should he have overtaken Maenck in the United

States. He couldn’t kill the man in cold blood, justly as he may have

deserved the fate, and the thought of causing his arrest and dragging

his own name into the publicity of court proceedings was little less

distasteful to him.

Furthermore, the pursuit of Maenck now gave Barney a legitimate excuse

for returning to Lutha, or at least to the close neighborhood of the

little kingdom, where he might await the outcome of events and be ready

to give his services in the cause of the house of Von der Tann should

they be required.

By going directly to Italy and entering Austria from that country

Barney managed to arrive within the boundaries of the dual monarchy

with comparatively few delays. Nor did he encounter any considerable

bodies of troops until he reached the little town of Burgova, which

lies not far from the Serbian frontier. Beyond this point his

credentials would not carry him. The emperor’s officers were polite,

but firm. No newspaper correspondents could be permitted nearer the

front than Burgova.

There was nothing to be done, therefore, but wait until some propitious

event gave him the opportunity to approach more closely the Serbian

boundary and Lutha. In the meantime he would communicate with Butzow,

who might be able to obtain passes for him to some village nearer the

Luthanian frontier, when it should be an easy matter to cross through

to Serbia. He was sure the Serbian authorities would object less

strenuously to his presence.

The inn at which he applied for accommodations was already overrun by

officers, but the proprietor, with scant apologies for a civilian,

offered him a little box of a room in the attic. The place was scarce

more than a closet, and for that Barney was in a way thankful since the

limited space could accommodate but a single cot, thus insuring him the

privacy that a larger chamber would have precluded.

He was very tired after his long and comfortless land journey, so after

an early dinner he went immediately to his room and to bed. How long he

slept he did not know, but some time during the night he was awakened

by the sound of voices apparently close to his ear.

For a moment he thought the speakers must be in his own room, so

distinctly did he overhear each word of their conversation; but

presently he discovered that they were upon the opposite side of a thin

partition in an adjoining room. But half awake, and with the sole idea

of getting back to sleep again as quickly as possible, Barney paid only

the slightest attention to the meaning of the words that fell upon his

ears, until, like a bomb, a sentence broke through his sleepy

faculties, banishing Morpheus upon the instant.

“It will take but little now to turn Leopold against Von der Tann.” The

speaker evidently was an Austrian. “Already I have half convinced him

that the old man aspires to the throne. Leopold fears the loyalty of

his army, which is for Von der Tann body and soul. He knows that Von

der Tann is strongly anti-Austrian, and I have made it plain to him

that if he allows his kingdom to take sides with Serbia he will have no

kingdom when the war is over—it will be a part of Austria.

“It was with greater difficulty, however, my dear Peter, that I

convinced him that you, Von Coblich, and Captain Maenck were his most

loyal friends. He fears you yet, but, nevertheless, he has pardoned you

all. Do not forget when you return to your dear Lutha that you owe your

repatriation to Count Zellerndorf of Austria.”

“You may be assured that we shall never forget,” replied another voice

that Barney recognized at once as belonging to Prince Peter of Blentz,

the one time regent of Lutha.

“It is not for myself,” continued Count Zellerndorf, “that I crave your

gratitude, but for my emperor. You may do much to win his undying

gratitude, while for yourselves you may win to almost any height with

the friendship of Austria behind you. I am sure that should any

accident, which God forfend, deprive Lutha of her king, none would make

a more welcome successor in the eyes of Austria than our good friend

Peter.”

Barney could almost see the smile of satisfaction upon the thin lips of

Peter of Blentz as this broad hint fell from the lips of the Austrian

diplomat—a hint that seemed to the American little short of the death

sentence of Leopold, King of Lutha.

“We owed you much before, count,” said Peter. “But for you we should

have been hanged a year ago—without your aid we should never have been

able to escape from the fortress of Lustadt or cross the border into

Austria-Hungary. I am sorry that Maenck failed in his mission, for had

he not we would have had concrete evidence to present to the king that

we are indeed his loyal supporters. It would have dispelled at once

such fears and doubts as he may still entertain of our fealty.”

“Yes, I, too, am sorry,” agreed Zellerndorf. “I can assure you that the

news we hoped Captain Maenck would bring from America would have gone a

long way toward restoring you to the confidence and good graces of the

king.”

“I did my best,” came another voice that caused Barney’s eyes to go

wide in astonishment, for it was none other than the voice of Maenck

himself. “Twice I risked hanging to get him and only came away after I

had been recognized.”

“It is too bad,” sighed Zellerndorf; “though it may not be without its

advantages after all, for now we still have this second bugbear to

frighten Leopold with. So long, of course, as the American lives there

is always the chance that he may return and seek to gain the throne.

The fact that his mother was a Rubinroth princess might make it easy

for Von der Tann to place him upon the throne without much opposition,

and if he married the old man’s daughter it is easy to conceive that

the prince might favor such a move. At any rate, it should not be

difficult to persuade Leopold of the possibility of such a thing.

“Under the circumstances Leopold is almost convinced that his only hope

of salvation lies in cementing friendly relations with the most

powerful of Von der Tann’s enemies, of which you three gentlemen stand

preeminently in the foreground, and of assuring to himself the support

of Austria. And now, gentlemen,” he went on after a pause, “good night.

I have handed Prince Peter the necessary military passes to carry you

safely through our lines, and tomorrow you may be in Blentz if you

wish.”

II.

CONDEMNED TO DEATH

For some time Barney Custer lay there in the dark revolving in his mind

all that he had overheard through the partition—the thin partition

which alone lay between himself and three men who would be only too

glad to embrace the first opportunity to destroy him. But his fears

were not for himself so much as for the daughter of old Von der Tann,

and for all that might befall that princely house were these three

unhung rascals to gain Lutha and have their way with the weak and

cowardly king who reigned there.

If he could but reach Von der Tann’s ear and through him the king

before the conspirators came to Lutha! But how might he accomplish it?

Count Zellerndorf’s parting words to the three had shown that military

passes were necessary to enable one to reach Lutha.

His papers were practically worthless even inside the lines. That they

would carry him through the lines he had not the slightest hope. There

were two things to be accomplished if possible. One was to cross the

frontier into Lutha; and the other, which of course was quite out of

the question, was to prevent Peter of Blentz, Von Coblich, and Maenck

from doing so. But was that altogether impossible?

The idea that followed that question came so suddenly that it brought

Barney Custer out onto the floor in a bound, to don his clothes and

sneak into the hall outside his room with the stealth of a professional

second-story man.

To the right of his own door was the door to the apartment in which the

three conspirators slept. At least, Barney hoped they slept. He bent

close to the keyhole and listened. From within came no sound other than

the regular breathing of the inmates. It had been at least half an hour

since the American had heard the conversation cease. A glance through

the keyhole showed no light within the room. Stealthily Barney turned

the knob. Had they bolted the door? He felt the tumbler move to the

pressure—soundlessly. Then he pushed gently inward. The door swung.

A moment later he stood in the room. Dimly he could see two beds—a

large one and a smaller. Peter of Blentz would be alone upon the

smaller bed, his henchmen sleeping together in the larger. Barney crept

toward the lone sleeper. At the bedside he fumbled in the dark groping

for the man’s clothing—for the coat, in the breastpocket of which he

hoped to find the military pass that might carry him safely out of

Austria-Hungary and into Lutha. On the foot of the bed he found some

garments. Gingerly he felt them over, seeking the coat.

At last he found it. His fingers, steady even under the nervous tension

of this unaccustomed labor, discovered the inner pocket and the folded

paper. There were several of them; Barney took them all.

So far he made no noise. None of the sleepers had stirred. Now he took

a step toward the doorway and—kicked a shoe that lay in his path. The

slight noise in that quiet room sounded to Barney’s ears like the fall

of a brick wall. Peter of Blentz stirred, turning in his sleep. Behind

him Barney heard one of the men in the other bed move. He turned his

head in that direction. Either Maenck or Coblich was sitting up peering

through the darkness.

“Is that you, Prince Peter?” The voice was Maenck’s.

“What’s the matter?” persisted Maenck.

“I’m going for a drink of water,” replied the American, and stepped

toward the door.

Behind him Peter of Blentz sat up in bed.

“That you, Maenck?” he called.

Instantly Maenck was out of bed, for the first voice had come from the

vicinity of the doorway; both could not be Peter’s.

“Quick!” he cried; “there’s someone in our room.”

Barney leaped for the doorway, and upon his heels came the three

conspirators. Maenck was closest to him—so close that Barney was forced

to turn at the top of the stairs. In the darkness he was just conscious

of the form of the man who was almost upon him. Then he swung a vicious

blow for the other’s face—a blow that landed, for there was a cry of

pain and anger as Maenck stumbled back into the arms of the two behind

him. From below came the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs to

the accompaniment of a clanking saber. Barney’s retreat was cut off.

Turning, he dodged into his own room before the enemy could locate him

or even extricate themselves from the confusion of Maenck’s sudden

collision with the other two. But what could Barney gain by the slight

delay that would be immediately followed by his apprehension?

He didn’t know. All that he was sure of was that there had been no

other place to go than this little room. As he entered the first thing

that his eyes fell upon was the small square window. Here at least was

some slight encouragement.

He ran toward it. The lower sash was raised. As the door behind him

opened to admit Peter of Blentz and his companions, Barney slipped

through into the night, hanging by his hands from the sill without.

What lay beneath or how far the drop he could not guess, but that

certain death menaced him from above he knew from the conversation he

had overheard earlier in the evening.

For an instant he hung suspended. He heard the men groping about the

room. Evidently they were in some fear of the unknown assailant they

sought, for they did not move about with undue rashness. Presently one

of them struck a light—Barney could see its flare lighten the window

casing for an instant.

“The room is empty,” came a voice from above him.

“Look to the window!” cried Peter of Blentz, and then Barney Custer let

go his hold upon the sill and dropped into the blackness below.

His fall was a short one, for the window had been directly over a low

shed at the side of the inn. Upon the roof of this the American landed,

and from there he dropped to the courtyard without mishap. Glancing up,

he saw the heads of three men peering from the window of the room he

had just quitted.

“There he is!” cried one, and instantly the three turned back into the

room. As Barney fled from the courtyard he heard the rattle of hasty

footsteps upon the rickety stairway of the inn.

Choosing an alley rather than a street in which he might run upon

soldiers at any moment, he moved quickly yet cautiously away from the

inn. Behind him he could hear the voices of many men. They were raised

to a high pitch by excitement. It was clear to Barney that there were

many more than the original three—Prince Peter had, in all probability,

enlisted the aid of the military.

Could he but reach the frontier with his stolen passes he would be

comparatively safe, for the rugged mountains of Lutha offered many

places of concealment, and, too, there were few Luthanians who did not

hate Peter of Blentz most cordially—among the men of the mountains at

least. Once there he could defy a dozen Blentz princes for the little

time that would be required to carry him into Serbia and comparative

safety.

As he approached a cross street a couple of squares from the inn he

found it necessary to pass beneath a street lamp. For a moment he

paused in the shadows of the alley listening. Hearing nothing moving in

the street, Barney was about to make a swift spring for the shadows

upon the opposite side when it occurred to him that it might be safer

to make assurance doubly sure by having a look up and down the street

before emerging into the light.

It was just as well that he did, for as he thrust his head around the

corner of the building the first thing that his eyes fell upon was the

figure of an Austrian sentry, scarcely three paces from him. The

soldier was standing in a listening attitude, his head half turned away

from the American. The sounds coming from the direction of the inn were

apparently what had attracted his attention.

Behind him, Barney was sure he heard evidences of pursuit. Before him

was certain detection should he attempt to cross the street. On either

hand rose the walls of buildings. That he was trapped there seemed

little doubt.

He continued to stand motionless, watching the Austrian soldier. Should

the fellow turn toward him, he had but to withdraw his head within the

shadow of the building that hid his body. Possibly the man might turn

and take his beat in the opposite direction. In which case Barney was

sure he could dodge across the street, undetected.

Already the vague threat of pursuit from the direction of the inn had

developed into a certainty—he could hear men moving toward him through

the alley from the rear. Would the sentry never move! Evidently not,

until he heard the others coming through the alley. Then he would turn,

and the devil would be to pay for the American.

Barney was about hopeless. He had been in the war zone long enough to

know that it might prove a very disagreeable matter to be caught

sneaking through back alleys at night. There was a single chance—a sort

of forlorn hope—and that was to risk fate and make a dash beneath the

sentry’s nose for the opposite alley mouth.

“Well, here goes,” thought Barney. He had heard that many of the

Austrians were excellent shots. Visions of Beatrice, Nebraska, swarmed

his memory. They were pleasant visions, made doubly alluring by the

thought that the realities of them might never again be for him.

He turned once more toward the sounds of pursuit—the men upon his track

could not be over a square away—there was not an instant to be lost.

And then from above him, upon the opposite side of the alley, came a

low: “S-s-t!”

Barney looked up. Very dimly he could see the dark outline of a window

some dozen feet from the pavement, and framed within it the lighter

blotch that might have been a human face. Again came the challenging:

“S-s-t!” Yes, there was someone above, signaling to him.

“S-s-t!” replied Barney. He knew that he had been discovered, and could

think of no better plan for throwing the discoverer off his guard than

to reply.

Then a soft voice floated down to him—a woman’s voice!

“Is that you?” The tongue was Serbian. Barney could understand it,

though he spoke it but indifferently.

“Yes,” he replied truthfully.

“Thank Heaven!” came the voice from above. “I have been watching you,

and thought you one of the Austrian pigs. Quick! They are coming—I can

hear them;” and at the same instant Barney saw something drop from the

window to the ground. He crossed the alley quickly, and could have

shouted in relief for what he found there—the end of a knotted rope

dangling from above.

His pursuers were almost upon him when he seized the rude ladder to

clamber upward. At the window’s ledge a firm, young hand reached out

and, seizing his own, almost dragged him through the window. He turned

to look back into the alley. He had been just in time; the Austrian

sentry, alarmed by the sound of approaching footsteps down the alley,

had stepped into view. He stood there now with leveled rifle, a

challenge upon his lips. From the advancing party came a satisfactory

reply.

At the same instant the girl beside him in the Stygian blackness of the

room threw her arms about Barney’s neck and drew his face down to hers.

“Oh, Stefan,” she whispered, “what a narrow escape! It makes me tremble

to think of it. They would have shot you, my Stefan!”

The American put an arm about the girl’s shoulders, and raised one hand

to her cheek—it might have been in caress, but it wasn’t. It was to

smother the cry of alarm he anticipated would follow the discovery that

he was not “Stefan.” He bent his lips close to her ear.

“Do not make an outcry,” he whispered in very poor Serbian. “I am not

Stefan; but I am a friend.”

The exclamation of surprise or fright that he had expected was not

forthcoming. The girl lowered her arms from about his neck.

“Who are you?” she asked in a low whisper.

“I am an American war correspondent,” replied Barney, “but if the

Austrians get hold of me now it will be mighty difficult to convince

them that I am not a spy.” And then a sudden determination came to him

to trust his fate to this unknown girl, whose face, even, he had never

seen. “I am entirely at your mercy,” he said. “There are Austrian

soldiers in the street below. You have but to call to them to send me

before the firing squad—or, you can let me remain here until I can find

an opportunity to get away in safety. I am trying to reach Serbia.”

“Why do you wish to reach Serbia?” asked the girl suspiciously.

“I have discovered too many enemies in Austria tonight to make it safe

for me to remain,” he replied, “and, further, my original intention was

to report the war from the Serbian side.”

The girl hesitated for a while, evidently in thought.

“They are moving on,” suggested Barney. “If you are going to give me up

you’d better do it at once.”

“I’m not going to give you up,” replied the girl. “I’m going to keep

you prisoner until Stefan returns—he will know best what to do with

you. Now you must come with me and be locked up. Do not try to escape—I

have a revolver in my hand,” and to give her prisoner physical proof of

the weapon he could not see she thrust the muzzle against his side.

“I’ll take your word for the gun,” said Barney, “if you’ll just turn it

in the other direction. Go ahead—I’ll follow you.”

“No, you won’t,” replied the girl. “You’ll go first; but before that

you’ll raise your hands above your head. I want to search you.”

Barney did as he was bid and a moment later felt deft fingers running

over his clothing in search of concealed weapons. Satisfied at last

that he was unarmed, the girl directed him to precede her, guiding his

steps from behind with a hand upon his arm. Occasionally he felt the

muzzle of her revolver touch his body. It was a most unpleasant

sensation.

They crossed the room to a door which his captor directed him to open,

and after they had passed through and she had closed it behind them the

girl struck a match and lit a candle which stood upon a little bracket

on the partition wall. The dim light of the tallow dip showed Barney

that he was in a narrow hall from which several doors opened into

different rooms. At one end of the hall a stairway led to the floor

below, while at the opposite end another flight disappeared into the

darkness above.

“This way,” said the girl, motioning toward the stairs that led upward.

Barney had turned toward her as she struck the match, obtaining an

excellent view of her features. They were clear-cut and regular. Her

eyes were large and very dark. Dark also was her hair, which was piled

in great heaps upon her finely shaped head. Altogether the face was one

not easily to be forgotten. Barney could scarce have told whether the

girl was beautiful or not, but that she was striking there could be no

doubt.

He preceded her up the stairway to a door at the top. At her direction

he turned the knob and entered a small room in which was a cot, an

ancient dresser and a single chair.

“You will remain here,” she said, “until Stefan returns. Stefan will

know what to do with you.” Then she left him, taking the light with

her, and Barney heard a key turn in the lock of the door after she had

closed it. Presently her footfalls died out as she descended to the

lower floors.

“Anyhow,” thought the American, “this is better than the Austrians. I

don’t know what Stefan will do with me, but I have a rather vivid idea

of what the Austrians would have done to me if they’d caught me

sneaking through the alleys of Burgova at midnight.”

Throwing himself on the cot Barney was soon asleep, for though his

predicament was one that, under ordinary circumstances might have made

sleep impossible, yet he had so long been without the boon of slumber

that tired nature would no longer be denied.

When he awoke it was broad daylight. The sun was pouring in through a

skylight in the ceiling of his tiny chamber. Aside from this there were

no windows in the room. The sound of voices came to him with an uncanny

distinctness that made it seem that the speakers must be in this very

chamber, but a glance about the blank walls convinced him that he was

alone.

Presently he espied a small opening in the wall at the head of his cot.

He rose and examined it. The voices appeared to be coming from it. In

fact, they were. The opening was at the top of a narrow shaft that

seemed to lead to the basement of the structure—apparently once the

shaft of a dumb-waiter or a chute for refuse or soiled clothes.

Barney put his ear close to it. The voices that came from below were

those of a man and a woman. He heard every word distinctly.

“We must search the house, fraulein,” came in the deep voice of a man.

“Whom do you seek?” inquired a woman’s voice. Barney recognized it as

the voice of his captor.

“A Serbian spy, Stefan Drontoff,” replied the man. “Do you know him?”

There was a considerable pause on the girl’s part before she answered,

and then her reply was in such a low voice that Barney could barely

hear it.

“I do not know him,” she said. “There are several men who lodge here.

What may this Stefan Drontoff look like?”

“I have never seen him,” replied the officer; “but by arresting all the

men in the house we must get this Stefan also, if he is here.”

“Oh!” cried the girl, a new note in her voice, “I guess I know now whom

you mean. There is one man here I have heard them call Stefan, though

for the moment I had forgotten it. He is in the small attic-room at the

head of the stairs. Here is a key that will fit the lock. Yes, I am

sure that he is Stefan. You will find him there, and it should be easy

to take him, for I know that he is unarmed. He told me so last night

when he came in.”

“The devil!” muttered Barney Custer; but whether he referred to his

predicament or to the girl it would be impossible to tell. Already the

sound of heavy boots on the stairs announced the coming of men—several

of them. Barney heard the rattle of accouterments—the clank of a

scabbard—the scraping of gun butts against the walls. The Austrians

were coming!

He looked about. There was no way of escape except the door and the

skylight, and the door was impossible.

Quickly he tilted the cot against the door, wedging its legs against a

crack in the floor—that would stop them for a minute or two. Then he

wheeled the dresser beneath the skylight and, placing the chair on top

of it, scrambled to the seat of the latter. His head was at the height

of the skylight. To force the skylight from its frame required but a

moment. A key entered the lock of the door from the opposite side and

turned. He knew that someone without was pushing. Then he heard an oath

and heavy battering upon the panels. A moment later he had drawn

himself through the skylight and stood upon the roof of the building.

Before him stretched a series of uneven roofs to the end of the street.

Barney did not hesitate. He started on a rapid trot toward the

adjoining roof. From that he clambered to a higher one beyond.

On he went, now leaping narrow courts, now dropping to low sheds and

again clambering to the heights of the higher buildings, until he had

come almost to the end of the row. Suddenly, behind him he heard a

hoarse shout, followed by the report of a rifle. With a whir, a bullet

flew a few inches above his head. He had gained the last roof—a large,

level roof—and at the shot he turned to see how near to him were his

pursuers.

Fatal turn!

Scarce had he taken his eyes from the path ahead than his foot fell

upon a glass skylight, and with a loud crash he plunged through amid a

shower of broken glass.

His fall was a short one. Directly beneath the skylight was a bed, and

on the bed a fat Austrian infantry captain. Barney lit upon the pit of

the captain’s stomach. With a howl of pain the officer catapulted

Barney to the floor. There were three other beds in the room, and in

each bed one or two other officers. Before the American could regain

his feet they were all sitting on him—all except the infantry captain.

He lay shrieking and cursing in a painful attempt to regain his breath,

every atom of which Barney had knocked out of him.

The officers sitting on Barney alternately beat him and questioned him,

interspersing their interrogations with lurid profanity.

“If you will get off of me,” at last shouted the American, “I shall be

glad to explain—and apologize.”

They let him up, scowling ferociously. He had promised to explain, but

now that he was confronted by the immediate necessity of an explanation

that would prove at all satisfactory as to how he happened to be

wandering around the rooftops of Burgova, he discovered that his powers

of invention were entirely inadequate. The need for explaining,

however, was suddenly removed. A shadow fell upon them from above, and

as they glanced up Barney saw the figure of an officer surrounded by

several soldiers looking down upon him.

“Ah, you have him!” cried the newcomer in evident satisfaction. “It is

well. Hold him until we descend.”

A moment later he and his escort had dropped through the broken

skylight to the floor beside them.

“Who is the mad man?” cried the captain who had broken Barney’s fall.

“The assassin! He tried to murder me.”

“I cannot doubt it,” replied the officer who had just descended, “for

the fellow is no other than Stefan Drontoff, the famous Serbian spy!”

“Himmel!” ejaculated the officers in chorus. “You have done a good

day’s work, lieutenant.”

“The firing squad will do a better work in a few minutes,” replied the

lieutenant, with a grim pointedness that took Barney’s breath away.

III.

BEFORE THE FIRING SQUAD

They marched Barney before the staff where he urged his American

nationality, pointing to his credentials and passes in support of his

contention.

The general before whom he had been brought shrugged his shoulders.

“They are all Americans as soon as they are caught,” he said; “but why

did you not claim to be Prince Peter of Blentz? You have his passes as

well. How can you expect us to believe your story when you have in your

possession passes for different men?

“We have every respect for our friends the Americans. I would even

stretch a point rather than chance harming an American; but you will

admit that the evidence is all against you. You were found in the very

building where Drontoff was known to stay while in Burgova. The young

woman whose mother keeps the place directed our officer to your room,

and you tried to escape, which I do not think that an innocent American

would have done.

“However, as I have said, I will go to almost any length rather than

chance a mistake in the case of one who from his appearance might pass

more readily for an American than a Serbian. I have sent for Prince

Peter of Blentz. If you can satisfactorily explain to him how you

chance to be in possession of military passes bearing his name I shall

be very glad to give you the benefit of every other doubt.”

Peter of Blentz. Send for Peter of Blentz! Barney wondered just what

kind of a sensation it was to stand facing a firing squad. He hoped

that his knees wouldn’t tremble—they felt a trifle weak even now. There

was a chance that the man might not recall his face, but a very slight

chance. It had been his remarkable likeness to Leopold of Lutha that

had resulted in the snatching of a crown from Prince Peter’s head.

Likely indeed that he would ever forget his, Barney’s, face, though he

had seen it but once without the red beard that had so added to

Barney’s likeness to the king. But Maenck would be along, of course,

and Maenck would have no doubts—he had seen Barney too recently in

Beatrice to fail to recognize him now.

Several men were entering the room where Barney stood before the

general and his staff. A glance revealed to the prisoner that Peter of

Blentz had come, and with him Von Coblich and Maenck. At the same

instant Peter’s eyes met Barney’s, and the former, white and wide-eyed

came almost to a dead halt, grasping hurriedly at the arm of Maenck who

walked beside him.

“My God!” was all that Barney heard him say, but he spoke a name that

the American did not hear. Maenck also looked his surprise, but his

expression was suddenly changed to one of malevolent cunning and

gratification. He turned toward Prince Peter with a few low-whispered

words. A look of relief crossed the face of the Blentz prince.

“You appear to know the gentleman,” said the general who had been

conducting Barney’s examination. “He has been arrested as a Serbian

spy, and military passes in your name were found upon his person

together with the papers of an American newspaper correspondent, which

he claims to be. He is charged with being Stefan Drontoff, whom we long

have been anxious to apprehend. Do you chance to know anything about

him, Prince Peter?”

“Yes,” replied Peter of Blentz, “I know him well by sight. He entered

my room last night and stole the military passes from my coat—we all

saw him and pursued him, but he got away in the dark. There can be no

doubt but that he is the Serbian spy.”

“He insists that he is Bernard Custer, an American,” urged the general,

who, it seemed to Barney, was anxious to make no mistake, and to give

the prisoner every reasonable chance—a state of mind that rather

surprised him in a European military chieftain, all of whom appeared to

share the popular obsession regarding the prevalence of spies.

“Pardon me, general,” interrupted Maenck. “I am well acquainted with

Mr. Custer, who spent some time in Lutha a couple of years ago. This

man is not he.”

“That is sufficient, gentlemen, I thank you,” said the general. He did

not again look at the prisoner, but turned to a lieutenant who stood

near-by. “You may remove the prisoner,” he directed. “He will be

destroyed with the others—here is the order,” and he handed the

subaltern a printed form upon which many names were filled in and at

the bottom of which the general had just signed his own. It had

evidently been waiting the outcome of the examination of Stefan

Drontoff.

Surrounded by soldiers, Barney Custer walked from the presence of the

military court. It was to him as though he moved in a strange world of

dreams. He saw the look of satisfaction upon the face of Peter of

Blentz as he passed him, and the open sneer of Maenck. As yet he did

not fully realize what it all meant—that he was marching to his death!

For the last time he was looking upon the faces of his fellow men; for

the last time he had seen the sun rise, never again to see it set.

He was to be “destroyed.” He had heard that expression used many times

in connection with useless horses, or vicious dogs. Mechanically he

drew a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it. There was no bravado

in the act. On the contrary it was done almost unconsciously. The

soldiers marched him through the streets of Burgova. The men were

entirely impassive—even so early in the war they had become accustomed

to this grim duty. The young officer who commanded them was more

nervous than the prisoner—it was his first detail with a firing squad.

He looked wonderingly at Barney, expecting momentarily to see the man

collapse, or at least show some sign of terror at his close impending

fate; but the American walked silently toward his death, puffing

leisurely at his cigarette.

At last, after what seemed a long time, his guard turned in at a large

gateway in a brick wall surrounding a factory. As they entered Barney

saw twenty or thirty men in civilian dress, guarded by a dozen

infantrymen. They were standing before the wall of a low brick

building. Barney noticed that there were no windows in the wall. It

suddenly occurred to him that there was something peculiarly grim and

sinister in the appearance of the dead, blank surface of

weather-stained brick. For the first time since he had faced the

military court he awakened to a full realization of what it all meant

to him—he was going to be lined up against that ominous brick wall with

these other men—they were going to shoot them.

A momentary madness seized him. He looked about upon the other

prisoners and guards. A sudden break for liberty might give him

temporary respite. He could seize a rifle from the nearest soldier, and

at least have the satisfaction of selling his life dearly. As he looked

he saw more soldiers entering the factory yard.

A sudden apathy overwhelmed him. What was the use? He could not escape.

Why should he wish to kill these soldiers? It was not they who were

responsible for his plight—they were but obeying orders. The close

presence of death made life seem very desirable. These men, too,

desired life. Why should he take it from them uselessly? At best he

might kill one or two, but in the end he would be killed as surely as

though he took his place before the brick wall with the others.

He noticed now that these others evinced no inclination to contest

their fates. Why should he, then? Doubtless many of them were as

innocent as he, and all loved life as well. He saw that several were

weeping silently. Others stood with bowed heads gazing at the

hard-packed earth of the factory yard. Ah, what visions were their eyes

beholding for the last time! What memories of happy firesides! What

dear, loved faces were limned upon that sordid clay!

His reveries were interrupted by the hoarse voice of a sergeant,

breaking rudely in upon the silence and the dumb terror. The fellow was

herding the prisoners into position. When he was done Barney found

himself in the front rank of the little, hopeless band. Opposite them,

at a few paces, stood the firing squad, their gun butts resting upon

the ground.

The young lieutenant stood at one side. He issued some instructions in

a low tone, then he raised his voice.

“Ready!” he commanded. Fascinated by the horror of it, Barney watched

the rifles raised smartly to the soldiers’ hips—the movement was as

precise as though the men were upon parade. Every bolt clicked in

unison with its fellows.

“Aim!” the pieces leaped to the hollows of the men’s shoulders. The

leveled barrels were upon a line with the breasts of the condemned. A

man at Barney’s right moaned. Another sobbed.

“Fire!” There was the hideous roar of the volley. Barney Custer

crumpled forward to the ground, and three bodies fell upon his. A

moment later there was a second volley—all had not fallen at the first.

Then the soldiers came among the bodies, searching for signs of life;

but evidently the two volleys had done their work. The sergeant formed

his men in line. The lieutenant marched them away. Only silence

remained on guard above the pitiful dead in the factory yard.

The day wore on and still the stiffening corpses lay where they had

fallen. Twilight came and then darkness. A head appeared above the top

of the wall that had enclosed the grounds. Eyes peered through the

night and keen ears listened for any sign of life within. At last,

evidently satisfied that the place was deserted, a man crawled over the

summit of the wall and dropped to the ground within. Here again he

paused, peering and listening.

What strange business had he here among the dead that demanded such

caution in its pursuit? Presently he advanced toward the pile of

corpses. Quickly he tore open coats and searched pockets. He ran his

fingers along the fingers of the dead. Two rings had rewarded his

search and he was busy with a third that encircled the finger of a body

that lay beneath three others. It would not come off. He pulled and

tugged, and then he drew a knife from his pocket.

But he did not sever the digit. Instead he shrank back with a muffled

scream of terror. The corpse that he would have mutilated had staggered

suddenly to its feet, flinging the dead bodies to one side as it rose.

“You fiend!” broke from the lips of the dead man, and the ghoul turned

and fled, gibbering in his fright.

The tramp of soldiers in the street beyond ceased suddenly at the sound

from within the factory yard. It was a detail of the guard marching to

the relief of sentries. A moment later the gates swung open and a score

of soldiers entered. They saw a figure dodging toward the wall a dozen

paces from them, but they did not see the other that ran swiftly around

the corner of the factory.

This other was Barney Custer of Beatrice. When the command to fire had

been given to the squad of riflemen, a single bullet had creased the

top of his head, stunning him. All day he had lain there unconscious.

It had been the tugging of the ghoul at his ring that had roused him to

life at last.

Behind him, as he scurried around the end of the factory building, he

heard the scattering fire of half a dozen rifles, followed by a

scream—the fleeing hyena had been hit. Barney crouched in the shadow of

a pile of junk. He heard the voices of soldiers as they gathered about

the wounded man, questioning him, and a moment later the imperious

tones of an officer issuing instructions to his men to search the yard.

That he must be discovered seemed a certainty to the American. He

crouched further back in the shadows close to the wall, stepping with

the utmost caution.

Presently to his chagrin his foot touched the metal cover of a manhole;

there was a resultant rattling that smote upon Barney’s ears and nerves

with all the hideous clatter of a boiler shop. He halted, petrified,

for an instant. He was no coward, but after being so near death, life

had never looked more inviting, and he knew that to be discovered meant

certain extinction this time.

The soldiers were circling the building. Already he could hear them

nearing his position. In another moment they would round the corner of

the building and be upon him. For an instant he contemplated a bold

rush for the fence. In fact, he had gathered himself for the leaping

start and the quick sprint across the open under the noses of the

soldiers who still remained beside the dying ghoul, when his mind

suddenly reverted to the manhole beneath his feet. Here lay a hiding

place, at least until the soldiers had departed.

Barney stooped and raised the heavy lid, sliding it to one side. How

deep was the black chasm beneath he could not even guess. Doubtless it

led into a coal bunker, or it might open over a pit of great depth.

There was no way to discover other than to plumb the abyss with his

body. Above was death—below, a chance of safety.

The soldiers were quite close when Barney lowered himself through the

manhole. Clinging with his fingers to the upper edge his feet still

swung in space. How far beneath was the bottom? He heard the scraping

of the heavy shoes of the searchers close above him, and then he closed

his eyes, released the grasp of his fingers, and dropped.

IV.

A RACE TO LUTHA

Barney’s fall was not more than four or five feet. He found himself

upon a slippery floor of masonry over which two or three inches of

water ran sluggishly. Above him he heard the soldiers pass the open

manhole. It was evident that in the darkness they had missed it.

For a few minutes the fugitive remained motionless, then, hearing no

sounds from above he started to grope about his retreat. Upon two sides

were blank, circular walls, upon the other two circular openings about

four feet in diameter. It was through these openings that the tiny

stream of water trickled.

Barney came to the conclusion that he had dropped into a sewer. To get

out the way he had entered appeared impossible. He could not leap

upward from the slimy, concave bottom the distance he had dropped. To

follow the sewer upward would lead him nowhere nearer escape. There

remained no hope but to follow the trickling stream downward toward the

river, into which his judgment told him the entire sewer system of the

city must lead.

Stooping, he entered the ill-smelling circular conduit, groping his way

slowly along. As he went the water deepened. It was half way to his

knees when he plunged unexpectedly into another tube running at right

angles to the first. The bottom of this tube was lower than that of the

one which emptied into it, so that Barney now found himself in a

swiftly running stream of filth that reached above his knees. Downward

he followed this flood—faster now for the fear of the deadly gases

which might overpower him before he could reach the river.

The water deepened gradually as he went on. At last he reached a point

where, with his head scraping against the roof of the sewer, his chin

was just above the surface of the stream. A few more steps would be all

that he could take in this direction without drowning. Could he retrace

his way against the swift current? He did not know. He was weakened

from the effects of his wound, from lack of food and from the exertions

of the past hour. Well, he would go on as far as he could. The river

lay ahead of him somewhere. Behind was only the hostile city.

He took another step. His foot found no support. He surged backward in

an attempt to regain his footing, but the power of the flood was too

much for him. He was swept forward to plunge into water that surged

above his head as he sank. An instant later he had regained the surface

and as his head emerged he opened his eyes.

He looked up into a starlit heaven! He had reached the mouth of the

sewer and was in the river. For a moment he lay still, floating upon

his back to rest. Above him he heard the tread of a sentry along the

river front, and the sound of men’s voices.

The sweet, fresh air, the star-shot void above, acted as a powerful

tonic to his shattered hopes and overwrought nerves. He lay inhaling

great lungsful of pure, invigorating air. He listened to the voices of

the Austrian soldiery above him. All the buoyancy of his inherent

Americanism returned to him.

“This is no place for a minister’s son,” he murmured, and turning over

struck out for the opposite shore. The river was not wide, and Barney

was soon nearing the bank along which he could see occasional camp

fires. Here, too, were Austrians. He dropped down-stream below these,

and at last approached the shore where a wood grew close to the water’s

edge. The bank here was steep, and the American had some difficulty in

finding a place where he could clamber up the precipitous wall of rock.

But finally he was successful, finding himself in a little clump of

bushes on the river’s brim. Here he lay resting and listening—always

listening. It seemed to Barney that his ears ached with the constant

strain of unflagging duty that his very existence demanded of them.

Hearing nothing, he crawled at last from his hiding place with the

purpose of making his way toward the south and to the frontier as

rapidly as possible. He could hope only to travel by night, and he

guessed that this night must be nearly spent. Stooping, he moved

cautiously away from the river. Through the shadows of the wood he made

his way for perhaps a hundred yards when he was suddenly confronted by

a figure that stepped from behind the bole of a tree.

“Halt! Who goes there?” came the challenge.

Barney’s heart stood still. With all his care he had run straight into

the arms of an Austrian sentry. To run would be to be shot. To advance

would mean capture, and that too would mean death.

For the barest fraction of an instant he hesitated, and then his quick

American wits came to his aid. Feigning intoxication he answered the

challenge in dubious Austrian that he hoped his maudlin tongue would

excuse.

“Friend,” he answered thickly. “Friend with a drink—have one?” And he

staggered drunkenly forward, banking all upon the credulity and thirst

of the soldier who confronted him with fixed bayonet.

That the sentry was both credulous and thirsty was evidenced by the

fact that he let Barney come within reach of his gun. Instantly the

drunken Austrian was transformed into a very sober and active engine of

destruction. Seizing the barrel of the piece Barney jerked it to one

side and toward him, and at the same instant he leaped for the throat

of the sentry.

So quickly was this accomplished that the Austrian had time only for a

single cry, and that was choked in his windpipe by the steel fingers of

the American. Together both men fell heavily to the ground, Barney

retaining his hold upon the other’s throat.

Striking and clutching at one another they fought in silence for a

couple of minutes, then the soldier’s struggles began to weaken. He

squirmed and gasped for breath. His mouth opened and his tongue

protruded. His eyes started from their sockets. Barney closed his

fingers more tightly upon the bearded throat. He rained heavy blows

upon the upturned face. The beating fists of his adversary waved wildly

now—the blows that reached Barney were pitifully weak. Presently they

ceased. The man struggled violently for an instant, twitched

spasmodically and lay still.

Barney clung to him for several minutes longer, until there was not the

slightest indication of remaining life. The perpetration of the deed

sickened him; but he knew that his act was warranted, for it had been

either his life or the other’s. He dragged the body back to the bushes

in which he had been hiding. There he stripped off the Austrian

uniform, put his own clothes upon the corpse and rolled it into the

river.

Dressed as an Austrian private, Barney Custer shouldered the dead

soldier’s gun and walked boldly through the wood to the south.

Momentarily he expected to run upon other soldiers, but though he kept

straight on his way for hours he encountered none. The thin line of

sentries along the river had been posted only to double the preventive

measures that had been taken to keep Serbian spies either from entering

or leaving the city.

Toward dawn, at the darkest period of the night, Barney saw lights

ahead of him. Apparently he was approaching a village. He went more

cautiously now, but all his care did not prevent him from running for

the second time that night almost into the arms of a sentry. This time,

however, Barney saw the soldier before he himself was discovered. It

was upon the edge of the town, in an orchard, that the sentinel was

posted. Barney, approaching through the trees, darting from one to

another, was within a few paces of the man before he saw him.

The American remained quietly in the shadow of a tree waiting for an

opportunity to escape, but before it came he heard the approach of a

small body of troops. They were coming from the village directly toward

the orchard. They passed the sentry and marched within a dozen feet of

the tree behind which Barney was hiding.

As they came opposite him he slipped around the tree to the opposite

side. The sentry had resumed his pacing, and was now out of sight

momentarily among the trees further on. He could not see the American,

but there were others who could. They came in the shape of a

non-commissioned officer and a detachment of the guard to relieve the

sentry. Barney almost bumped into them as he rounded the tree. There

was no escape—the non-commissioned officer was within two feet of him

when Barney discovered him. “What are you doing here?” shouted the

sergeant with an oath. “Your post is there,” and he pointed toward the

position where Barney had seen the sentry.

At first Barney could scarce believe his ears. In the darkness the

sergeant had mistaken him for the sentinel! Could he carry it out? And

if so might it not lead him into worse predicament? No, Barney decided,

nothing could be worse. To be caught masquerading in the uniform of an

Austrian soldier within the Austrian lines was to plumb the uttermost

depth of guilt—nothing that he might do now could make his position

worse.

He faced the sergeant, snapping his piece to present, hoping that this

was the proper thing to do. Then he stumbled through a brief excuse.

The officer in command of the troops that had just passed had demanded

the way of him, and he had but stepped a few paces from his post to

point out the road to his superior.

The sergeant grunted and ordered him to fall in. Another man took his

place on duty. They were far from the enemy and discipline was lax, so

the thing was accomplished which under other circumstances would have

been well nigh impossible. A moment later Barney found himself marching

back toward the village, to all intents and purposes an Austrian

private.

Before a low, windowless shed that had been converted into barracks for

the guard, the detail was dismissed. The men broke ranks and sought

their blankets within the shed, tired from their lonely vigil upon

sentry duty.

Barney loitered until the last. All the others had entered. He dared

not, for he knew that any moment the sentry upon the post from which he

had been taken would appear upon the scene, after discovering another

of his comrades. He was certain to inquire of the sergeant. They would

be puzzled, of course, and, being soldiers, they would be suspicious.

There would be an investigation, which would start in the barracks of

the guard. That neighborhood would at once become a most unhealthy spot

for Barney Custer, of Beatrice, Nebraska.

When the last of the soldiers had entered the shed Barney glanced

quickly about. No one appeared to notice him. He walked directly past

the doorway to the end of the building. Around this he found a yard,

deeply shadowed. He entered it, crossed it, and passed out into an

alley beyond. At the first cross-street his way was blocked by the

sight of another sentry—the world seemed composed entirely of Austrian

sentries. Barney wondered if the entire Austrian army was kept

perpetually upon sentry duty; he had scarce been able to turn without

bumping into one.

He turned back into the alley and at last found a crooked passageway

between buildings that he hoped might lead him to a spot where there

was no sentry, and from which he could find his way out of the village

toward the south. The passage, after devious windings, led into a

large, open court, but when Barney attempted to leave the court upon

the opposite side he found the ubiquitous sentries upon guard there.

Evidently there would be no escape while the Austrians remained in the

town. There was nothing to do, therefore, but hide until the happy

moment of their departure arrived. He returned to the courtyard, and

after a short search discovered a shed in one corner that had evidently

been used to stable a horse, for there was straw at one end of it and a

stall in the other. Barney sat down upon the straw to wait

developments. Tired nature would be denied no longer. His eyes closed,

his head drooped upon his breast. In three minutes from the time he

entered the shed he was stretched full length upon the straw, fast

asleep.

The chugging of a motor awakened him. It was broad daylight. Many

sounds came from the courtyard without. It did not take Barney long to

gather his scattered wits—in an instant he was wide awake. He glanced

about. He was the only occupant of the shed. Rising, he approached a

small window that looked out upon the court. All was life and movement.

A dozen military cars either stood about or moved in and out of the

wide gates at the opposite end of the enclosure. Officers and soldiers

moved briskly through a doorway that led into a large building that

flanked the court upon one side. While Barney slept the headquarters of

an Austrian army corps had moved in and taken possession of the

building, the back of which abutted upon the court where lay his modest

little shed.

Barney took it all in at a single glance, but his eyes hung long and

greedily upon the great, high-powered machines that chugged or purred

about him.

Gad! If he could but be behind the wheel of such a car for an hour! The

frontier could not be over fifty miles to the south, of that he was

quite positive; and what would fifty miles be to one of those machines?

Barney sighed as a great, gray-painted car whizzed into the courtyard

and pulled up before the doorway. Two officers jumped out and ran up

the steps. The driver, a young man in a uniform not unlike that which

Barney wore, drew the car around to the end of the courtyard close

beside Barney’s shed. Here he left it and entered the building into

which his passengers had gone. By reaching through the window Barney

could have touched the fender of the machine. A few seconds’ start in

that and it would take more than an Austrian army corps to stop him

this side of the border. Thus mused Barney, knowing already that the

mad scheme that had been born within his brain would be put to action

before he was many minutes older.

There were many soldiers on guard about the courtyard. The greatest

danger lay in arousing the suspicions of one of these should he chance

to see Barney emerge from the shed and enter the car.

“The proper thing,” thought Barney, “is to come from the building into

which everyone seems to pass, and the only way to be seen coming out of

it is to get into it; but how the devil am I to get into it?”

The longer he thought the more convinced he became that utter

recklessness and boldness would be his only salvation. Briskly he

walked from the shed out into the courtyard beneath the eyes of the

sentries, the officers, the soldiers, and the military drivers. He

moved straight among them toward the doorway of the headquarters as

though bent upon important business—which, indeed, he was. At least it

was quite the most important business to Barney Custer that that young

gentleman could recall having ventured upon for some time.

No one paid the slightest attention to him. He had left his gun in the

shed for he noticed that only the men on guard carried them. Without an

instant’s hesitation he ran briskly up the short flight of steps and

entered the headquarters building. Inside was another sentry who barred

his way questioningly. Evidently one must state one’s business to this

person before going farther. Barney, without any loss of time or

composure, stepped up to the guard.

“Has General Kampf passed in this morning?” he asked blithely. Barney

had never heard of any “General Kampf,” nor had the sentry, since there

was no such person in the Austrian army. But he did know, however, that

there were altogether too many generals for any one soldier to know the

names of them all.

“I do not know the general by sight,” replied the sentry.

Here was a pretty mess, indeed. Doubtless the sergeant would know a

great deal more than would be good for Barney Custer. The young man

looked toward the door through which he had just entered. His sole

object in coming into the spider’s parlor had been to make it possible

for him to come out again in full view of all the guards and officers

and military chauffeurs, that their suspicions might not be aroused

when he put his contemplated coup to the test.

He glanced toward the door. Machines were whizzing in and out of the

courtyard. Officers on foot were passing and repassing. The sentry in

the hallway was on the point of calling his sergeant.

“Ah!” cried Barney. “There is the general now,” and without waiting to

cast even a parting glance at the guard he stepped quickly through the

doorway and ran down the steps into the courtyard. Looking neither to

right nor to left, and with a convincing air of self-confidence and

important business, he walked directly to the big, gray machine that

stood beside the little shed at the end of the courtyard.

To crank it and leap to the driver’s seat required but a moment. The

big car moved smoothly forward. A turn of the steering wheel brought it

around headed toward the wide gates. Barney shifted to second speed,

stepped on the accelerator and the cut-out simultaneously, and with a

noise like the rattle of a machine gun, shot out of the courtyard.

None who saw his departure could have guessed from the manner of it

that the young man at the wheel of the gray car was stealing the

machine or that his life depended upon escape without detection. It was

the very boldness of his act that crowned it with success.

Once in the street Barney turned toward the south. Cars were passing up

and down in both directions, usually at high speed. Their numbers

protected the fugitive. Momentarily he expected to be halted; but he

passed out of the village without mishap and reached a country road

which, except for a lane down its center along which automobiles were

moving, was blocked with troops marching southward. Through this

soldier-walled lane Barney drove for half an hour.

From a great distance, toward the southeast, he could hear the boom of

cannon and the bursting of shells. Presently the road forked. The

troops were moving along the road on the left toward the distant battle

line. Not a man or machine was turning into the right fork, the road

toward the south that Barney wished to take.

Could he successfully pass through the marching soldiers at his right?

Among all those officers there surely would be one who would question

the purpose and destination of this private soldier who drove alone in

the direction of the nearby frontier.

The moment had come when he must stake everything on his ability to

gain the open road beyond the plodding mass of troops. Diminishing the

speed of the car Barney turned it in toward the marching men at the

same time sounding his horn loudly. An infantry captain, marching

beside his company, was directly in front of the car. He looked up at

the American. Barney saluted and pointed toward the right-hand fork.

The captain turned and shouted a command to his men. Those who had not

passed in front of the car halted. Barney shot through the little lane

they had opened, which immediately closed up behind him. He was

through! He was upon the open road! Ahead, as far as he could see,

there was no sign of any living creature to bar his way, and the

frontier could not be more than twenty-five miles away.

V.

THE TRAITOR KING

In his castle at Lustadt, Leopold of Lutha paced nervously back and

forth between his great desk and the window that overlooked the royal

gardens. Upon the opposite side of the desk stood an old man—a tall,

straight, old man with the bearing of a soldier and the head of a lion.

His keen, gray eyes were upon the king, and sorrow was written upon his

face. He was Ludwig von der Tann, chancellor of the kingdom of Lutha.

At last the king stopped his pacing and faced the old man, though he

could not meet those eagle eyes squarely, try as he would. It was his

inability to do so, possibly, that added to his anger. Weak himself, he

feared this strong man and envied him his strength, which, in a weak

nature, is but a step from hatred. There evidently had been a long

pause in their conversation, yet the king’s next words took up the

thread of their argument where it had broken.

“You speak as though I had no right to do it,” he snapped. “One might

think that you were the king from the manner with which you upbraid and

reproach me. I tell you, Prince von der Tann, that I shall stand it no

longer.”

The king approached the desk and pounded heavily upon its polished

surface with his fist. The physical act of violence imparted to him a

certain substitute for the moral courage which he lacked.

“I will tell you, sir, that I am king. It was not necessary that I

consult you or any other man before pardoning Prince Peter and his

associates. I have investigated the matter thoroughly and I am

convinced that they have been taught a sufficient lesson and that

hereafter they will be my most loyal subjects.”

He hesitated. “Their presence here,” he added, “may prove an antidote

to the ambitions of others who lately have taken it upon themselves to

rule Lutha for me.”

There was no mistaking the king’s meaning, but Prince Ludwig did not

show by any change of expression that the shot had struck him in a

vulnerable spot; nor, upon the other hand, did he ignore the

insinuation. There was only sorrow in his voice when he replied.

“Sire,” he said, “for some time I have been aware of the activity of

those who would like to see Peter of Blentz returned to favor with your

majesty. I have warned you, only to see that my motives were always

misconstrued. There is a greater power at work, your majesty, than any

of us—greater than Lutha itself. One that will stop at nothing in order

to gain its ends. It cares naught for Peter of Blentz, naught for me,

naught for you. It cares only for Lutha. For strategic purposes it must

have Lutha. It will trample you under foot to gain its end, and then it

will cast Peter of Blentz aside. You have insinuated, sire, that I am

ambitious. I am. I am ambitious to maintain the integrity and freedom

of Lutha.

“For three hundred years the Von der Tanns have labored and fought for

the welfare of Lutha. It was a Von der Tann that put the first

Rubinroth king upon the throne of Lutha. To the last they were loyal to

the former dynasty while that dynasty was loyal to Lutha. Only when the

king attempted to sell the freedom of his people to a powerful neighbor

did the Von der Tanns rise against him.

“Sire! the Von der Tanns have always been loyal to the house of

Rubinroth. And but a single thing rises superior within their breasts

to that loyalty, and that is their loyalty to Lutha.” He paused for an

instant before concluding. “And I, sire, am a Von der Tann.”

There could be no mistaking the old man’s meaning. So long as Leopold

was loyal to his people and their interests Ludwig von der Tann would

be loyal to Leopold. The king was cowed. He was very much afraid of

this grim old warrior. He chafed beneath his censure.

“You are always scolding me,” he cried irritably. “I am getting tired

of it. And now you threaten me. Do you call that loyalty? Do you call

it loyalty to refuse to compel your daughter to keep her plighted

troth? If you wish to prove your loyalty command the Princess Emma to

fulfil the promise you made my father—command her to wed me at once.”

Von der Tann looked the king straight in the eyes.

“I cannot do that,” he said. “She has told me that she will kill

herself rather than wed with your majesty. She is all I have left,

sire. What good would be accomplished by robbing me of her if you could

not gain her by the act? Win her confidence and love, sire. It may be

done. Thus only may happiness result to you and to her.”

“You see,” exclaimed the king, “what your loyalty amounts to! I believe

that you are saving her for the impostor—I have heard as much hinted at

before this. Nor do I doubt that she would gladly connive with the

fellow if she thought there was a chance of his seizing the throne.”

Von der Tann paled. For the first time righteous indignation and anger

got the better of him. He took a step toward the king.

“Stop!” he commanded. “No man, not even my king, may speak such words

to a Von der Tann.”

In an antechamber just outside the room a man sat near the door that

led into the apartment where the king and his chancellor quarreled. He

had been straining his ears to catch the conversation which he could

hear rising and falling in the adjoining chamber, but till now he had

been unsuccessful. Then came Prince Ludwig’s last words booming loudly

through the paneled door, and the man smiled. He was Count Zellerndorf,

the Austrian minister to Lutha.

The king’s outraged majesty goaded him to an angry retort.

“You forget yourself, Prince von der Tann,” he cried. “Leave our

presence. When we again desire to be insulted we shall send for you.”

As the chancellor passed into the antechamber Count Zellerndorf rose

and greeted him warmly, almost effusively. Von der Tann returned his

salutations with courtesy but with no answering warmth. Then he passed

on out of the palace.

“The old fox must have heard,” he mused as he mounted his horse and

turned his face toward Tann and the Old Forest.

When Count Zellerndorf of Austria entered the presence of Leopold of

Lutha he found that young ruler much disturbed. He had resumed his

restless pacing between desk and window, and as the Austrian entered he

scarce paused to receive his salutation. Count Zellerndorf was a

frequent visitor at the palace. There were few formalities between this

astute diplomat and the young king; those had passed gradually away as

their acquaintance and friendship ripened.

“Prince Ludwig appeared angry when he passed through the antechamber,”

ventured Zellerndorf. “Evidently your majesty found cause to rebuke

him.”

The king nodded and looked narrowly at the Austrian. “The Prince von

der Tann insinuated that Austria’s only wish in connection with Lutha

is to seize her,” he said.

Zellerndorf raised his hands in well-simulated horror.

“Your majesty!” he exclaimed. “It cannot be that the prince has gone to

such lengths to turn you against your best friend, my emperor. If he

has I can only attribute it to his own ambitions. I have hesitated to

speak to you of this matter, your majesty, but now that the honor of my

own ruler is questioned I must defend him.

“Bear with me then, should what I have to say wound you. I well know

the confidence which the house of Von der Tann has enjoyed for

centuries in Lutha; but I must brave your wrath in the interest of

right. I must tell you that it is common gossip in Vienna that Von der

Tann aspires to the throne of Lutha either for himself or for his

daughter through the American impostor who once sat upon your throne

for a few days. And let me tell you more.

“The American will never again menace you—he was arrested in Burgova as

a spy and executed. He is dead; but not so are Von der Tann’s

ambitions. When he learns that he no longer may rely upon the strain of

the Rubinroth blood that flowed in the veins of the American from his

royal mother, the runaway Princess Victoria, there will remain to him

only the other alternative of seizing the throne for himself. He is a

very ambitious man, your majesty. Already he has caused it to become

current gossip that he is the real power behind the throne of

Lutha—that your majesty is but a figure-head, the puppet of Von der

Tann.”

Zellerndorf paused. He saw the flush of shame and anger that suffused

the king’s face, and then he shot the bolt that he had come to fire,

but which he had not dared to hope would find its target so denuded of

defense.

“Your majesty,” he whispered, coming quite close to the king, “all

Lutha is inclined to believe that you fear Prince von der Tann. Only a

few of us know the truth to be the contrary. For the sake of your

prestige you must take some step to counteract this belief and stamp it

out for good and all. I have planned a way—hear it.

“Von der Tann’s hatred of Peter of Blentz is well known. No man in

Lutha believes that he would permit you to have any intercourse with

Peter. I have brought from Blentz an invitation to your majesty to

honor the Blentz prince with your presence as a guest for the ensuing

week. Accept it, your majesty.

“Nothing could more conclusively prove to the most skeptical that you

are still the king, and that Von der Tann, nor any other, may not dare

to dictate to you. It will be the most splendid stroke of statesmanship

that you could achieve at the present moment.”

For an instant the king stood in thought. He still feared Peter of

Blentz as the devil is reputed to fear holy water, though for converse

reasons. Yet he was very angry with Von der Tann. It would indeed be an

excellent way to teach the presumptuous chancellor his place.

Leopold almost smiled as he thought of the chagrin with which Prince

Ludwig would receive the news that he had gone to Blentz as the guest

of Peter. It was the last impetus that was required by his weak,

vindictive nature to press it to a decision.

“Very well,” he said, “I will go tomorrow.”

It was late the following day that Prince von der Tann received in his

castle in the Old Forest word that an Austrian army had crossed the

Luthanian frontier—the neutrality of Lutha had been violated. The old

chancellor set out immediately for Lustadt. At the palace he sought an

interview with the king only to learn that Leopold had departed earlier

in the day to visit Peter of Blentz.

There was but one thing to do and that was to follow the king to

Blentz. Some action must be taken immediately—it would never do to let

this breach of treaty pass unnoticed.

The Serbian minister who had sent word to the chancellor of the

invasion by the Austrian troops was closeted with him for an hour after

his arrival at the palace. It was clear to both these men that the hand

of Zellerndorf was plainly in evidence in both the important moves that

had occurred in Lutha within the past twenty-four hours—the luring of

the king to Blentz and the entrance of Austrian soldiery into Lutha.

Following his interview with the Serbian minister Von der Tann rode

toward Blentz with only his staff in attendance. It was long past

midnight when the lights of the town appeared directly ahead of the

little party. They rode at a trot along the road which passes through

the village to wind upward again toward the ancient feudal castle that

looks down from its hilltop upon the town.

At the edge of the village Von der Tann was thunderstruck by a

challenge from a sentry posted in the road, nor was his dismay lessened

when he discovered that the man was an Austrian.

“What is the meaning of this?” he cried angrily. “What are Austrian

soldiers doing barring the roads of Lutha to the chancellor of Lutha?”

The sentry called an officer. The latter was extremely suave. He

regretted the incident, but his orders were most positive—no one could

be permitted to pass through the lines without an order from the

general commanding. He would go at once to the general and see if he

could procure the necessary order. Would the prince be so good as to

await his return? Von der Tann turned on the young officer, his face

purpling with rage.

“I will pass nowhere within the boundaries of Lutha,” he said, “upon

the order of an Austrian. You may tell your general that my only regret

is that I have not with me tonight the necessary force to pass through

his lines to my king—another time I shall not be so handicapped,” and

Ludwig, Prince von der Tann, wheeled his mount and spurred away in the

direction of Lustadt, at his heels an extremely angry and revengeful

staff.

VI.

A TRAP IS SPRUNG

Long before Prince von der Tann reached Lustadt he had come to the

conclusion that Leopold was in virtue a prisoner in Blentz. To prove

his conclusion he directed one of his staff to return to Blentz and

attempt to have audience with the king.

“Risk anything,” he instructed the officer to whom he had entrusted the

mission. “Submit, if necessary, to the humiliation of seeking an

Austrian pass through the lines to the castle. See the king at any cost

and deliver this message to him and to him alone and secretly. Tell him

my fears, and that if I do not have word from him within twenty-four

hours I shall assume that he is indeed a prisoner.

“I shall then direct the mobilization of the army and take such steps

as seem fit to rescue him and drive the invaders from the soil of

Lutha. If you do not return I shall understand that you are held

prisoner by the Austrians and that my worst fears have been realized.”

But Prince Ludwig was one who believed in being forehanded and so it

happened that the orders for the mobilization of the army of Lutha were

issued within fifteen minutes of his return to Lustadt. It would do no

harm, thought the old man, with a grim smile, to get things well under

way a day ahead of time. This accomplished, he summoned the Serbian

minister, with what purpose and to what effect became historically

evident several days later. When, after twenty-four hours’ absence, his

aide had not returned from Blentz, the chancellor had no regrets for

his forehandedness.

In the castle of Peter of Blentz the king of Lutha was being

entertained royally. He was told nothing of the attempt of his

chancellor to see him, nor did he know that a messenger from Prince von

der Tann was being held a prisoner in the camp of the Austrians in the

village. He was surrounded by the creatures of Prince Peter and by

Peter’s staunch allies, the Austrian minister and the Austrian officers

attached to the expeditionary force occupying the town. They told him

that they had positive information that the Serbians already had

crossed the frontier into Lutha, and that the presence of the Austrian

troops was purely for the protection of Lutha.

It was not until the morning following the rebuff of Prince von der

Tann that Peter of Blentz, Count Zellerndorf and Maenck heard of the

occurrence. They were chagrined by the accident, for they were not

ready to deliver their final stroke. The young officer of the guard

had, of course, but followed his instructions—who would have thought

that old Von der Tann would come to Blentz! That he suspected their

motives seemed apparent, and now that his rebuff at the gates had

aroused his ire and, doubtless, crystallized his suspicions, they might

find in him a very ugly obstacle to the fruition of their plans.

With Von der Tann actively opposed to them, the value of having the

king upon their side would be greatly minimized. The people and the

army had every confidence in the old chancellor. Even if he opposed the

king there was reason to believe that they might still side with him.

“What is to be done?” asked Zellerndorf. “Is there no way either to win

or force Von der Tann to acquiescence?”

“I think we can accomplish it,” said Prince Peter, after a moment of

thought. “Let us see Leopold. His mind has been prepared to receive

almost gratefully any insinuations against the loyalty of Von der Tann.

With proper evidence the king may easily be persuaded to order the

chancellor’s arrest—possibly his execution as well.”

So they saw the king, only to meet a stubborn refusal upon the part of

Leopold to accede to their suggestions. He still was madly in love with

Von der Tann’s daughter, and he knew that a blow delivered at her

father would only tend to increase her bitterness toward him. The

conspirators were nonplussed.

They had looked for a comparatively easy road to the consummation of

their desires. What in the world could be the cause of the king’s

stubborn desire to protect the man they knew he feared, hated, and

mistrusted with all the energy of his suspicious nature? It was the

king himself who answered their unspoken question.

“I cannot believe in the disloyalty of Prince Ludwig,” he said, “nor

could I, even if I desired it, take such drastic steps as you suggest.

Some day the Princess Emma, his daughter, will be my queen.”

Count Zellerndorf was the first to grasp the possibilities that lay in

the suggestion the king’s words carried.

“Your majesty,” he cried, “there is a way to unite all factions in

Lutha. It would be better to insure the loyalty of Von der Tann through

bonds of kinship than to antagonize him. Marry the Princess Emma at

once.

“Wait, your majesty,” he added, as Leopold raised an objecting hand. “I

am well informed as to the strange obstinacy of the princess, but for

the welfare of the state—yes, for the sake of your very throne,

sire—you should exert your royal prerogatives and command the Princess

Emma to carry out the terms of your betrothal.”

“What do you mean, Zellerndorf?” asked the king.

“I mean, sire, that we should bring the princess here and compel her to

marry you.”

Leopold shook his head. “You do not know her,” he said. “You do not

know the Von der Tann nature—one cannot force a Von der Tann.”

“Pardon, sire,” urged Zellerndorf, “but I think it can be accomplished.

If the Princess Emma knew that your majesty believed her father to be a

traitor—that the order for his arrest and execution but awaited your

signature—I doubt not that she would gladly become queen of Lutha, with

her father’s life and liberty as a wedding gift.”

For several minutes no one spoke after Count Zellerndorf had ceased.

Leopold sat looking at the toe of his boot. Peter of Blentz, Maenck,

and the Austrian watched him intently. The possibilities of the plan

were sinking deep into the minds of all four. At last the king rose. He

was mumbling to himself as though unconscious of the presence of the

others.

“She is a stubborn jade,” he mumbled. “It would be an excellent lesson

for her. She needs to be taught that I am her king,” and then as though

his conscience required a sop, “I shall be very good to her. Afterward

she will be happy.” He turned toward Zellerndorf. “You think it can be

done?”

“Most assuredly, your majesty. We shall take immediate steps to fetch

the Princess Emma to Blentz,” and the Austrian rose and backed from the

apartment lest the king change his mind. Prince Peter and Maenck

followed him.

Princess Emma von der Tann sat in her boudoir in her father’s castle in

the Old Forest. Except for servants, she was alone in the fortress, for

Prince von der Tann was in Lustadt. Her mind was occupied with memories

of the young American who had entered her life under such strange

circumstances two years before—memories that had been awakened by the

return of Lieutenant Otto Butzow to Lutha. He had come directly to her

father and had been attached to the prince’s personal staff.

From him she had heard a great deal about Barney Custer, and the old

interest, never a moment forgotten during these two years, was

reawakened to all its former intensity.

Butzow had accompanied Prince Ludwig to Lustadt, but Princess Emma

would not go with them. For two years she had not entered the capital,

and much of that period had been spent in Paris. Only within the past

fortnight had she returned to Lutha.

In the middle of the morning her reveries were interrupted by the

entrance of a servant bearing a message. She had to read it twice

before she could realize its purport; though it was plainly worded—the

shock of it had stunned her. It was dated at Lustadt and signed by one

of the palace functionaries:

Prince von der Tann has suffered a slight stroke. Do not be alarmed,

but come at once. The two troopers who bear this message will act as

your escort.

It required but a few minutes for the girl to change to her riding

clothes, and when she ran down into the court she found her horse

awaiting her in the hands of her groom, while close by two mounted

troopers raised their hands to their helmets in salute.

A moment later the three clattered over the drawbridge and along the

road that leads toward Lustadt. The escort rode a short distance behind

the girl, and they were hard put to it to hold the mad pace which she

set them.