*CONTENTS*
I. David and Jonathan
II. The Return of Nicholas
III. Off for Bharbazonia!
IV. At the Turk's Head Inn
V. The Red Fox of Dhalmatia
VI. Solonika's Summer-House
VII. The Story of the Sacrilege
VIII. The Twins of Dhalmatia
IX. The Kiss in the King's Garden
X. The Discovery
XI. The Hidden Passage
XII. The Renunciation
XIII. The Rivals
XIV. The Abduction
XV. The Forest of Zin
XVI. Marbosa's Hunting Lodge--The Flight
XVII. Before the Storm
XVIII. The Coronation
XIX. The Sacrilege
XX. The Failure of Friendship
XXI. The Fight on the Stairs
XXII. The King is Dead--Long Live the King!
XXIII. The King's Offering
XXIV. L'Envoi
*THE RED FOX'S SON*
*CHAPTER I*
*DAVID AND JONATHAN*
We still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.
--_Shakespeare: As You Like It_.
As I write in my quiet library the history of those stirring events
which began and ended while the bells of 19-- were ringing in the New
Year in the Kingdom of Bharbazonia, I am interrupted on my literary
journey by the sound of a sweet voice singing, in the room below, the
robust melody of "The King and the Pope," my favourite song.
The sweet music sets me dreaming of the day I first met Solonika in her
quaint little Dhalmatian summerhouse; of the time when she would have
killed me in the Red Fox's Castle; of the night of suffering when I was
lost in the Forest of Zin; of the race for life with Marbosa's men; of
the sacrilege in the Cathedral of Nischon; of that last awful scene at
the Turk's Head Inn, when friendship was put to the test--and I marvel,
not so much that a man may be placed in danger of death in this, the
Twentieth Century, from the religious superstitions of a mediaeval race;
but that I should owe my life to that fortunate occurrence, years
before, when Dame Fortune's handmaiden, "Chance," made Nicholas Fremsted
my friend.
I often wonder at that friendship which came to mean so much to me. It
began when Nick and I were seventeen years old, and, although we are
past thirty now, it has but grown stronger with advancing years. We
were first attracted to each other as a result of a college prank. Like
most youngsters whose parents make great sacrifices that their children
may be permitted in a class-room, my whole ambition in life was to
absent myself from lectures as much as possible. Nor was I alone in my
folly, for most of my fellow students joined with me, knowing that the
dread day of reckoning, examination day, was far distant. It is
difficult to be a faithful student when the football season is gathering
momentum!
Our professor was old and almost blind; and we young rascals unfeelingly
took advantage of his infirmities. Before we were Freshmen a week,
grown wise under the evil counsel of our elders, the Sophomores and
Juniors, we had become adepts in dodging all his lectures. Because he
could not see, it was easy for us to answer to our names at roll call
and slip out the rear door, leaving the kind old man to talk to empty
chairs. Sometimes, when it was not convenient for us to leave the
athletic field, growing bolder with success, we commissioned one "man"
to answer "Here" for all of us. He was careful to use different tonal
qualities for each name. When his mission was safely concluded he, too,
would rejoin us, leaving a few of that despised set of boys known as
"grinds" in the front seats to sustain the appearance of a full class.
They, fearful of the wrath to come, diligently minded their own
business.
It was on one of the occasions when I had been sent up to answer for the
class, and was standing just inside the doorway impatient to be off,
that I first heard Nick's name. The professor, his nose close to the
sheet, lead pencil in hand, called it out and waited for the answer
which did not come. I glanced hastily down the list I held, but Nick's
name did not appear there. Again the professor called:
"Nicholas Fremsted."
"Here," I cried on the spur of the moment, and the roll call proceeded,
keeping me in continual hot water running the scale of "Here, Here,"
until it was over. To this day I cannot tell why I befriended him then.
He might have been a "grind" with a bona fide excuse for his absence
which when presented later might lead to discovery. I hoped he would be
one of the "good fellows" who were, I suppose, very bad fellows indeed.
The roll call over, I did not wait to see if he came late to lecture;
but that same evening he visited me in my rooms. He was a tall, well
made lad about my own height and build, with sleepy brown eyes and
waving black hair. His skin was as dark as an Italian's, but when he
spoke it was with a marked French accent mingled with something that
smacked of a Russian or Slavonic flavour. There was the pride of
ancestry in his easy bearing, and he spoke with the decision of one whom
the habit of taking care of himself had rendered self-reliant.
"I am come to make my thanks to you, sir," he said, "for your kind
offices this afternoon in replying to my name for the roll call."
"Do not mention it," I replied, bidding him be seated; "you came to
class then after all?"
"Yes. Soon after the rest they are gone, I advance to the fine old
professor to explain my lateness. He informs me I am not tardy."
"You didn't give the snap away?" I cried, realizing more fully the
chances I had taken, for, if this foreigner were of the stripe of human
beings who would rather be right than President, I should be made to
suffer for my kindness. My classmates would never forgive me for
breaking up the little deception which other classes had practised
undetected for years.
"Snap?" he repeated, puzzled by the colloquialism.
"I mean you did not tell him some one answered to your name?"
"Oh, no, I did not; although it is peculiar to be told by inference that
one lies. When the instructor he says you are here since the beginning
of the hour, and shows me the mark on the roll beside my name I only
thank him and say 'Ah.'"
"Good boy," I cried, knowing that our secret was safe in his hands; and
I took him to my heart then and there.
In five minutes we were smoking our pipes in the easy chairs, engaged in
the pleasant occupation of getting acquainted. I told him all about
myself and learned that he was not a Frenchman nor yet a Russian. That
much he told me, and a great deal more, but he did not volunteer any
information as to his nationality. There was that about him, too, which
discouraged familiarity and he remained a man of mystery, even to me
with whom he came to dwell at the end of that week, and with whom he
continued to live for eight years. After we passed through college, I
persuaded him to study medicine, and we both graduated from the medical
school at the age of twenty-five.
He was one of the most remarkable linguists I have ever met, and with
good cause. From his own account, he was sent away from home by his
father for political reasons, the import of which he himself did not
know, when he was eleven years old. He spent two years in St.
Petersburg at school, two in Berlin and one in Paris before he came to
Philadelphia, and, as far as I could learn, had never been home in all
that time. His ample quarterly remittances came through a Paris
broker's office.
When first we knew him we called him "Francois Fremsted" because we
believed him French. But, after he joined the football squad and
finally won his place on the team, having developed into a great strong
fellow, we nicknamed him "Lassie." because that was the most absurd
name we could think of for a man who was as intensely masculine as he.
Nicknames, like dreams, you know, usually go by contraries. Of course
the appellation was derived from the last syllable of his first name.
To unsympathetic ears it may at first have been misunderstood, but
"Lassie" himself liked it best of all the names we gave him.
His knowledge of languages did not extend alone to Russian, German,
French and English. I remember, on one occasion, when we were
celebrating a football victory with the usual foolish college abandon
and found ourselves among the docks on the Delaware River front, Nick
spoke in a peculiar dialect to a Slav stevedore, who was much surprised
to find an American so addressing him. For some reason Nick became
angry, and hurled the jargon at him imperiously; whereupon the labouring
man removed his cap and knelt on the Belgian blocks of the street. So
great was his humility that he would have kissed Fremsted's hand had not
Nick brushed him aside and walked away.
Again, I frequently accompanied him to the Italian and Russian quarter
of the town, when he wished to transact some mysterious business with
certain residents there, and found that he got on equally well with
them. It was also true that the Bulgarian consul was, next to me,
Nick's most intimate friend and adviser.
What Nick's business might be I could never determine, owing to the fact
that his negotiations were always conducted in different dialects, while
French was the only language I found time to learn--thanks to Nick's
assistance. Whatever he was doing, he did not permit it to interfere
with his college work, except on two occasions; once he was absent for a
week in New York and once he made a flying trip to San Francisco.
Beyond leaving a note for me saying he would not be home for a week or
so, he never volunteered any information about these journeys and I
never questioned him. Had it not been that he was such a handsome
fellow, not averse to the society of the ladies, I might yet be in
ignorance as to his destinations; but on both occasions letters with
illuminating post marks followed his return and told me that Nick had
found time to make social calls after business hours. There was never
anything serious about this sporadic feminine correspondence, and it
soon fell away, possibly because he presently forgot to answer--a most
reprehensible, though not unusual, fault in young men.
So the years went by and we became inseparable. The boys on the campus,
whom nothing ever escapes, remarked the friendship and dubbed us "David
and Jonathan." They eagerly watched for the advent of the woman, for
they desired to know what would happen if the eternal feminine should
come between David and Jonathan. But she never materialized and our
lives went peacefully on.
After graduation Nick and I hung out our shingles together in
Philadelphia. I persuaded my widowed mother to take a larger residence
on West Spruce Street where there was ample room for all. Some of his
clothing is still hanging on the hooks in his room and I suppose the key
to the front door is still on his key-chain. We were scarcely
comfortably fixed in our new quarters when Nick went away on one of his
sudden and mysterious journeys. At first I thought he would soon be
back, but he did not return for four years.
During that time I received an occasional letter from him, each one
mailed from a different part of the globe. In one of his missives he
told me his father had died, necessitating a change in his attitude
toward life. In a letter from Paris he said he had been home for a
season, but the country life of a gentleman did not appeal to him. He
assured me he would soon return, and one morning, when I awoke, I found
him in his bed-room next to mine. He had crept in quietly, while the
house slept, and retired as if it were the most ordinary thing in the
world for him to be home.
My joy at seeing him, as you can well believe, was great; but at the end
of one short month he was suddenly away again, and his letters began
arriving. This time he had a commission in the Russian army of the Far
East, and was in Vladivostok when the war with Japan was declared. It
was his misfortune to be transferred to Port Arthur, where he was
captured when the stronghold was surrendered.
At the conclusion of hostilities he resigned his commission, but
remained in Japan because he was interested in the country and the
language. Then he drifted over to the Philippines in search of that
will-o'-wisp called "Something New," and thence to California. In his
last letter he said that he was coming eastward by easy stages and that
there was a chance that I would soon see him in Philadelphia. In this
hope I was not disappointed, for Nicholas shortly made his appearance.
And here is where the story begins.
*CHAPTER II*
*THE RETURN OF NICHOLAS*
Returning he proclaims by many a grace,
By shrugs and strange contortions of the face,
How such a dunce that has been sent to roam,
Excels the dunce that has been kept at home.
--_Cowper: Progress of Error_.
It was on the evening of November 17, 19--, that Nicholas returned. I
recall the date distinctly because it was the opening night of the
Philadelphia Opera House. I was standing against the wall in the red
carpeted promenade, marvelling at the magnificent display of gowns and
the wonderful beauty of the women, both of which were a revelation to
me, native born though I am, when I saw Nick sauntering through the
crowd.
Older, a trifle heavier and more matured, I thought, than when I last
saw him, but in all else the same old Nicholas. He was attired in the
perfection of evening dress, for perfection was usual with him, and,
although I least expected to find him here, I knew I could not be
mistaken. There was the same mass of dark waving hair, soft, sleepy
brown eyes and smooth olive skin; the same well-built athletic
figure--proud heritage of the American college man--the same generous
full rounded mouth and even white teeth enhanced by contrast with the
darkness of his skin.
Waiting long enough to assure myself that he was alone, I made my way
through the crowd, none too gently I fear, trampling on many beautiful,
slow-moving trains in my eagerness to reach him.
"Lassie!" I called.
"Rude person," said the angry owner of a ruined dress; but I maintained
my reputation for rudeness by ignoring the pouting beauty in my frantic
effort to keep Nick in sight.
At the sound of the college name, which he had not heard for years, Nick
turned and examined face after face within range of his vision until,
over the undulating sea of the hair dresser's art--and artifice--our
smiling eyes met and he recognized me. So effusive was our meeting, and
so genuine the display of affection, that we became the centre of an
interested circle of bare-shouldered observers who, mayhap, imagined
that we were fighting. And not without reason, for we were alternately
shaking hands and punching each other forcibly, but affectionately, upon
our white shirt bosoms. As the lights were dimmed for the next act our
audience scattered as silently as possible to recover their places in
boxes and pit.
"Are you alone?" asked Nick.
"Yes."
"Good. Then you will spend the remainder of the evening with me, now
that I have found you."
The blare of the orchestra drowned further talk until we emerged from
the opera house, leaving the cigarette girl, Carmen, and her Spanish
lovers to their fate.
A huge dark green automobile with some sort of a foreign monogram on the
door, and a small Japanese boy enveloped in a great fur coat at the
wheel, drew silently up at the curb. Nicholas pushed through the aisles
of waiting carriages and the crowd of spectators that lined the street
and sidewalk on that famous opening night.
"To the Bellevue?" I asked noting the direction.
"I would rather take you home. We can have more quiet in your back
office, Dale. I want to hear you talk. The sound of your voice is the
best music I have heard since I returned to old Philadelphia."
"Have you seen mother?"
"Yes; I got in just after you had gone to the opera. She told me where
to find you."
When we arrived home the Jap boy put the car in a neighbouring garage
and I got out my Scotch and seltzer in the back office. Nick fled
upstairs and brought down a mandarin's coat of many colours which he had
picked up in Japan for me. It was indeed a beauty and I was proud of it
as I strutted around viewing myself in the mirrors. Nick made himself
comfortable in my old smoking jacket, and threw himself into a chair,
his glance wandering about the room.
"Just to think of it," he said; "all these years have gone by and
everything here is unchanged. Not a piece of furniture, not an ornament
has been moved. In the midst of it you sit, the very personification of
immovability, working away, doing the same thing yesterday, to-day and
for ever. While I have looked upon a new scene with every changing
hour, have seen cities rise and fall, have watched men die by the
hundreds. Doesn't the _wanderlust_ ever grip you, Dale; don't you ever
want to get out and see something of the world?"
"Some persons have to earn their living, you young gadabout," I said,
smiling; "and, after all, what have you accomplished with the fleeing
years?"
"Humph," said he, "nothing worth talking about. What have you done?"
"I have been practising my profession, distributing with a free hand my
pills and physic to the residents of Philadelphia; I have written a
medical book or two and I have extended the lives of a few men and
women, bringing joy into the homes of their loved ones. That is more
than you can say, perhaps."
"True," said Nick, "I have done nothing. Are you married, Dale?"
"No."
"Going to be?"
"Not that I am aware of."
"Nor I, either; but I never stayed long enough in one place. Why
haven't you?"
"Been too busy with my work to think about it, I suppose. Besides,
there's mother, you know. Nick, I wish you would write to me oftener;
your letters were so few and far between that I sometimes felt you had
forgotten me."
For answer he put his hand into the pocket of the mandarin coat I was
wearing and handed me a leather case. I opened it and recognized the
meerschaum pipe I had given him as a graduation present. Pure white it
was then, but now it was stained a beautiful reddish black, showing the
years of comfort it had given him since that time. Nicholas never
wasted words and I knew by this silent action in handing me the relic of
our old, happy days, that he was telling me in his characteristic way
how often he had thought of me. I was much pleased.
He took back the meerschaum, filled and lit before he replied.
"I know you have never forgiven me, Dale, for giving up the practice of
medicine. I wish I could make you understand that it was not entirely
my fault, and that there is no place for the medical profession in my
country."
"I never could understand that, Nick, for it always seemed to me that a
young man could make his best start where he was known."
"It is difficult to make you Americans understand that _tout le monde_,
as the French say, is not American. In the first place there is no
city, town or hamlet near my home place; and in the second the
people--although I say it who love them well--are not progressive. They
still live under the laws of the middle ages and the wonders of modern
medicine would appear as witchcraft in their eyes."
"Your country must be most peculiar," I said. Such was the rapport
between us that Nick took my reply as I meant it, a gentle suggestion
that he tell me more about his mysterious native land. Deep down in my
heart I always resented his secrecy in the matter, and could never
understand his reason for keeping anything from one who loved him like a
brother.
A frown gathered upon his brow as he studied the carpet.
"If you still want to make a mystery of yourself," I said when he
remained silent, "you need tell me nothing and I shall not be offended."
"When I first came to you, old friend," he said, "I kept my own counsel
for various reasons. One was because I desired you, and all who knew
me, to like me because I was just Nick Fremsted and not the descendant
of an old and illustrious family. Another was because you Americans are
inclined to smile at anything smaller than your own country and my
Fatherland is not any larger than the state of Delaware."
"Let it pass," I replied, "and instead tell me what you have done since
last we met."
"All right," said he. "Where shall I begin?"
"The last time you were here your father had died and you had arranged
your estate and continued your travelling. You went to St. Petersburg
on secret business for your government--the Turks were pressing you hard
and you needed assistance from your guardian angel, the Bear of the
North. After that you spent a month with me and then came the
Russo-Japanese war. Tell me about that."
He took up the account from the day he left Philadelphia and held me
spellbound with the tale of his experiences and the dangers he had
escaped until I felt that my own quiet existence was a mean little life
after all. The entrance of Teju Okio, returned from the garage, led the
story in his direction.
"I found the Jap boy in front of Port Arthur," said Nick. "He was one
of the little brown men who captured it. But, a month before they
caused us to surrender, I captured him. It happened in this way. I was
in command of one of the numerous defences which had to be taken before
the city fell. The Japs, like little moles, burrowed in the ground,
driving trenches toward us until they could win a position from which
they could drive us out. We made frequent charges on their works,
captured and put to death many of their soldiers pick and shovel in
hand.
"One night, as I was accompanying an attacking party, the ground caved
in beneath my feet and I fell on my back into a tunnel filled with
Japanese within a hundred feet of the foundations of our redoubt.
Before I could arise they recovered from their surprise and attacked me.
I put up the best fight I could for my life but they were too numerous.
"The only light in the hole was a smoking oil torch which was soon
kicked over, giving me the advantage of darkness. They were afraid to
strike in the dark for fear of hitting friends, but I had no such
compunctions. I fought my way to my feet, using both fists and feet,
and escaped the crowd, leaving them fighting together.
"I knew that the open end of the tunnel must be opposite from the fort,
so I went in that direction only to encounter more Japanese, running
with lights to learn the cause of the disturbance. The top of the
tunnel was so low that I had to stoop and there was no room to use my
sword. I dashed the leader of the relief party back upon his comrades;
three or four of them fell and the rest blocked up the passageway.
Before I could fight my way through, the first party came up in the rear
and I was knocked down by a blow on the head with a shovel.
"They tied me hand and foot and held a council of war. Most of them
were naked to the waist, and, as they gathered around the torch, with
the sweat running from them in streams, they looked like little demons
to me. Most of them were for killing me at once and be done with it,
and I suppose I should have died then and there with a pick in my brain
if one of their number, little Lieutenant Teju Okio, the only officer
among them, had not interceded for me. He stood over me with a revolver
in each hand and ordered them back to work. And they went reluctantly.
"In the meanwhile the Russian attacking party went on without noticing
my absence. As luck would have it, they stumbled upon the very ditch
which communicated with the tunnel, found the opening and came through
it, cautiously firing in front of them and feeling their way. Okio
heard them coming and knew that his men were caught in their own trap.
At his command the Japs attacked the side walls with their picks and
shovels and blocked up the passage with soil. Then he retreated with
his men, leaving me alone and bound beside the barrier. He had
forgotten to gag me and, when my companions came to what they imagined
was the end of the works, I shouted my orders to them to dig through.
Willing hands fell upon that hastily constructed barrier and in five
minutes I saw a Russian hand come through, followed by the face of one
of my own lieutenants, who paused in surprise when he saw me lying on
the ground with a torch burning beside me.
"'Heaven help me, captain,' he cried, 'what does this mean?'
"'Cut me loose. Hurry. They are in the far end of the tunnel. Get
your men through and capture them.'
"Man after man crawled through the hole until we were in sufficient
force to advance with assurance of success. I led the way at double
quick, but, when we came to the end of the work, there was only one man
there and that one was Teju Okio. He was squatting before his miner's
lamp calmly lighting a cigarette, his uniform and hands covered with
mud, as if an army had walked over him, his little chest heaving like a
victorious runner's after a gruelling race, a smile of satisfaction upon
his face. He knew it was not our habit to give or ask quarter, yet
there the brave little fellow sat smiling into the eyes of death.
"But I had not forgotten what he had done for me and I repaid my debt of
gratitude by interposing my body between his enemies, just as he, a
short time before, had done for me.
"'Leave this man to me,' I cried; 'get the rest. They are not far away.'
"But, search as we would, we could not find them. Neither was there
another tunnel and the one we were in ended right there. I was
mystified and turned to my prisoner for the explanation. He was
furtively watching the ceiling above his head. Looking in that direction
I saw the starry sky twinkling down through the hole in the roof of the
tunnel which I had made in falling. The heroism of Teju Okio was
apparent. Obeying his instructions, every one of his unarmed companions
had mounted Okio's shoulders and escaped through the opening, leaving
him to face the fury of the Russians alone.
"But I saw to it that they did not harm him, making him my own personal
prisoner. We retreated that night before the Japs finished their tunnel
and blew up the fort and, when Port Arthur fell, Teju Okio got his
freedom and I was taken with the rest of the survivors to Japan.
Hostilities concluded, I resigned my commission and stayed in Japan to
study the language. Teju Okio was only a poor farmer's boy and he
gladly came with me as my servant.
"I wrote you from the Philippines and California," he concluded, "didn't
you get my letters?"
"Oh, yes," I replied, "every one of them."
"Well, to bring it up to date, I arrived in New York last Saturday, a
week ago to-day; I left there this morning and motored over here. So
there, my friend, you have the record of my meagre years wherein you
observe I have been seeking amusement all over the earth. Sometimes I
found it and sometimes I was bored to death."
"Going to stay long, Nick?"
"As far as I now know I shall remain with you for some time."
My expressions of happiness were interrupted by the ringing of the front
doorbell.
"Somebody requires a pill," said Nick, as I answered it in person. "My,
what a practice we have built up!"
But the visitor was not one of my patients. He was a man of about five
and fifty with snow white hair which he wore rather long. His heavy
moustache, also white, was tightly waxed and turned up at the ends after
the manner of the German Emperor. His eyebrows, in contradistinction to
his hair and moustache, were black. They were heavy and overhung a fine
pair of alert, far-seeing black eyes, giving to his face a distinction
which made it cling to the most casual memory. His skin, like that of
Fremsted, was dark and showed the effect of an outdoor life. He seemed
to be a bluff, hearty old gentleman with whom Nature had dealt kindly.
On the whole there was something most pleasing about him.
"I wish to see Nicholas Fremsted," he said.
I hesitated, wondering who he might be and how he knew of Nick's
presence in my house. It was then nearly two o'clock in the morning, an
unseemly hour for a call whether of business or pleasure.
"Tell him General Palmora is here," he continued, and the ring of
command in his voice left me no alternative but to obey.
With some misgivings I ushered him into the reception room and called
Nick, feeling somehow that Nick's promised visit with me was at an end
before it was begun.
The General was evidently an old friend of Nick's, for when the two men
saw each other they embraced, kissing each other on the cheek like
foreigners and mingling their cries of delight. When their effusive
greeting was over, Nick led the old man to a chair and they began a
spirited conversation in a strange tongue, while I for the moment was
forgotten.
I wandered about the room making a pretence of examining my own pictures
and keeping my eye on the proceedings, but I could make little out of
them. The General did most of the talking. He handed Nick an official
looking document engrossed with a red seal from which was suspended blue
and gold ribbons. Nick held it under the hanging lamp, and the black
and the gray hair mingled as the two bent their heads together over it.
The General frequently tapped the paper with his slender fingers and
talked rapidly, combating every argument which Nicholas seemed to
advance. Finally he produced from his overcoat pocket a chamois bag
which he deposited upon the table. Judging from the jingle I concluded
that it contained gold coins. The argument ended when the General won
some sort of a promise from Nicholas. Then, having effected his
purpose, he rose abruptly, bowed low over Nick's hand and made his way
to the door, which I opened for him. He bade me "good night" politely
in English, and went down the steps.
When I returned to the reception room, Nick was deeply absorbed in
re-reading the parchment with the red seal. His face wore a troubled
look. As I went around to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder,
he started like a man suddenly awakened from a deep sleep. The message
before him was written in a foreign language with peculiar characters
the like of which I had never seen. They might have been Russian or
Hebrew. From the arrangement of the seal I imagined the screed was
intended to be read from right to left.
"Can you make anything of it?" asked Nick, noting my glance.
"All Greek to me," I replied; "Has it something to do with your
country?"
"Yes. It is an official command to Grand Duke--that is, I should say it
is a summons to Nicholas Fremsted "to be present at the Cathedral in
Nischon on New Year's Day, January 1, 19--, to bear witness and attest
to the legality of the coronation of Prince Raoul as King of
Bharbazonia," said Nick, reading the scroll. "It is signed by Oloff
Gregory, the present king, who is eighty-two years old, and desires to
abdicate."
At last the secret of Nick's nationality was out, but I was not
concerned with that so much as I was with the fear that I was to lose
him so soon.
"Of course you are going?" I asked.
"Yes; I gave my word to the General."
"I have never heard of this country of Bharbazonia; where is it, Nick?"
"No, of course not," said he. "It is one of the many small provinces of
southeastern Europe which is generally summed up and dismissed with the
expression--one of the Balkan states. My country threw off the yoke of
the Turks about the same time Bulgaria obtained her freedom at the
Battle of Shipka Pass, thanks to Russian intervention and their great
fighting chief Grand Duke Alexoff. During that struggle Bharbazonia sent
her best fighting men and all her money to Bulgaria's aid and many of
the fiercest battles for the extermination of the red fez were waged in
the mountains which surround the Fatherland. When the treaty was signed
Bulgaria and Bharbazonia were free. Gregory was made king and the
nobles, banished by the Turks, returned from exile in friendly Russia
and resumed control of the land of their forefathers."
"Was the General's news the first you had of the proposed abdication?"
"No, I knew of it; but did not feel called upon to be present. He
convinced me that it was my duty."
"Who is General Palmora?"
"He is one of the first men of Bharbazonia, commander-in-chief of her
army. Upon his shoulders fell the brunt of the fighting which resulted
in our freedom. My father and he were like brothers; a friendship like
ours existed between them, Dale, and, now that father is dead, Palmora
loves me like a son. All my affairs are in his hands at home. He was
visiting America on business of state. Bharbazonia's interests are in
charge of the Bulgarian consul in Philadelphia and, since I always leave
my address with him, General Palmora experienced no difficulty in
locating me."
"When do you sail?"
"I must return with the General on the _Koenig Albert_ from Hoboken next
Tuesday."
"Just one week from to-day?"
"Yes. We will be in Naples, if all goes well, a week from the following
Tuesday. There the General's yacht will meet us."
"What a beautiful trip you will have," I exclaimed, something of the
_wanderlust_ engendered by Nick's story getting into my blood. "How I
should like to go with you."
"I wish you would, Dale. We could be back in a month or so, and you
will see one of the prettiest little countries in the world. The
coronation services, too, are well worth the journey. Come now, make up
your mind and say you will go."
The more I thought about it the more feasible it became. I had arranged
to take a month in Florida, my first extended vacation in eight years,
and it would not be a difficult matter to rearrange the trip and go with
Nick.
And so it was agreed that he should book passage for me. Had I been
able to look into the future and see what was to befall in the Kingdom
of Bharbazonia, and that Nick would never come back with me, I might not
have taken my decision so lightly, nor have looked forward to the trip
with so much pleasure.
And here is where the story _really_ begins.
*CHAPTER III*
*OFF FOR BHARBAZONIA!*
See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
He that but fears the thing he would not know,
Hath, by instinct, knowledge from another's eyes,
That what he feared is chanced.
--_Shakespeare: Henry IV._
When the big ocean liner swung clear of her dock the following Tuesday
under the propelling influence of a pair of optimistic tugs which,
undaunted by her huge bulk and their diminutive size, dragged her slowly
into the current of the Hudson River, and set her face toward Europe,
Nick and I were leaning over the guard rail watching the sea of upturned
faces on the dock and the mass of waving handkerchiefs.
My preparations for the voyage had been quickly made. After expressing
my steamer trunk to the boat, writing a few letters and turning my
practice over to my hospital colleague, I was at liberty to accompany
Nick in his swift trips about the city while he transacted the business
which brought him to Philadelphia.
He first visited the Russian consul; then he held a long talk with a
white-bearded black-robed priest of the Greek Church and an Armenian
shoemaker in the Lombard Street district. Everywhere he was received
with considerable show of respect, and I began to suspect that his early
education in the languages had not been entirely a matter of taste or of
chance.
During all this time I had no glimpse of General Palmora in
Philadelphia, and he was not on board when we drove on the dock in
Nicholas' automobile, having made the trip from home in it. Nick
intended to take his car with him.
"It will be the first one they ever saw in Bharbazonia," he laughed,
and, when I suggested that it might be cheaper to buy a car in Europe
and so avoid the duties, he said that automobiles were unknown at the
place where we would disembark from the General's yacht and that there
would be no duties.
"Looks as if I had fallen in with a band of smugglers," I said
banteringly.
"Worse, oh, much worse," he replied in the same spirit.
On the second night out General Palmora made his appearance on deck, and
Nick introduced him. He paid me the compliment of saying that he had
often heard Nicholas speak of his chum, Dale Wharton; and tried to
communicate with me in several languages, much to Nick's amusement.
"Try English, General," he suggested. "Dale is an American and probably
knows only one language.
"You mustn't forget my French," I reminded him.
"Why, of course," replied the General, resuming his beautiful London
drawl, which revealed the source of his English education, "how stupid
of me. I should have known as much."
But the probability that he was trying to determine what language to use
with Nick in my presence, did not escape me.
"This is not the first time I have had the pleasure of seeing you,
General," I reminded him, opening the conversation after we were
comfortably seated in our steamer chairs, protected from the wind by our
rugs, "I was present with Fremsted the night you called at my house to
see him."
"Ah, indeed? I do not remember you. I must apologize for my seeming
rudeness in thus interrupting you, but the meeting with Nicholas was of
great importance. I could think of nothing else."
"I presume Nicholas would never have attended the coronation if you had
not urged him. He tells me in that event his estates might have been
confiscated."
"Although such is the law in Bharbazonia," said the General laughing,
and regarding Nick with affection, "I do not believe it would have been
enforced in his case. Nicholas has friends at court who are powerful."
"Then why drag me away from the work of the Order?" exclaimed Nick with
so much sudden heat that even the General was astonished.
"Gently, gently, my son," he answered in a conciliating tone, "I wanted
you in Bharbazonia because I fear that we will have need for you. The
'Red Fox of Dhalmatia' was never known to run straight, and all may not
be right with the succession."
"You mean that you suspect some trick may be attempted in connection
with Prince Raoul, who is to be king?" I asked, eager for news of this
strange country.
"It is one of his hobbies, Dale," said Nick. "You will soon find that
his suspicions have not a leg to stand upon."
"It is true, Dr. Wharton," said the old man sadly; "I have only the
vaguest ideas on the subject, although I have been watching and waiting,
and, I might add, hoping, these past twenty years. The boy Raoul I know
to be a capable youth. Although he is but twenty-two, he takes an
interest in the work of the Order, which his father the 'Red Fox' never
did. For that I like the boy. It argues well for his independence of
thought. But, because he is the son of his father, I--cordially dislike
him."
"Yes, General," I said, "but what are your suspicions?"
"If you will bear with me, young man, I will tell you the story. It
goes back to the time when the Prince was born. Nick was then a lad of
eleven or twelve and he was not interested in affairs of state. It was
the year I believe that his father, acting on my advice, sent him to
school in St. Petersburg. We were then only nine years away from the
consummation of the Treaty of Berlin by which Bulgaria, Eastern
Roumelia, Thessaly and Bharbazonia achieved independence, protected by
the Powers. Now in Bharbazonia, as in many Eastern countries, the
succession to the throne falls only upon the first male child of the
ruler. Oloff Gregory, the king, even then an old man, had no son, which
grieved him much, for he feared the throne must go away from his
immediate family. His only child was his daughter Teskla.
"On the other hand his younger brother, the Red Fox of Dhalmatia, was
more than pleased with the condition of affairs. He knew that, if he
should have a son, the boy would reign in Bharbazonia, not because of
any rights of succession, but because there was no other. Although, he,
too, was no longer young, the 'Red Fox' took unto himself a young wife
and it was soon noised abroad that the stork was expected to visit his
castle."
The point which the General made of the male succession in Bharbazonia
did not strike me as unusual, because I recalled that in England during
Queen Victoria's reign, her uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, was made King
of Hanover by virtue of the law which excluded females from that throne.
Before continuing his story Palmora lit his cigar with a wind match,
and, turning to me, said:
"I trust you will pardon the length of my tale. I do not wish to bore
you."
"Please go on, General, I am much interested," I hastened to assure him.
"In our country, Dr. Wharton, it is still the custom to notify the
peasantry of the birth of a castle child by ringing the tower bell, and,
in the event of a male, to proclaim the sex by five strokes of the
tongue, and in the event of a female by seven. The news is then carried
by word of mouth and so spreads over the country.
"On the night the stork brought its precious burden to Dhalmatia I was
playing chess, if I remember correctly, with my great friend, Nicholas'
father, in his library, when we heard the brass bell of Dhalmatia give
voice. With the fate of even more than the future king in the balance,
we forgot our game in our intense interest, counting the strokes.
"'One; two; three; four; five; six--'tis a girl,' said Nick's father,
much relieved, for he shared my dislike for the 'Red Fox,' and was
pleased that the succession would not go to Dhalmatia. There were other
reasons why we were delighted with the failure of the 'Red Fox's' hopes,
but they were locked in our breasts by the events which followed.
Scarcely had the bell completed its toll of seven, when to our
astonishment it began again.
"'One; two; three; four; _five_,' we both counted aloud, looking into
each other's eyes over the table between.
"'_Five_,' we shouted, springing to our feet and scattering the chessmen
broadcast.
"'A boy at Dhalmatia?' I cried, scarcely believing my ears.
"'Is he playing with us?' said my friend. 'By the first ring he tells
us it is a girl, and then he changes his mind and it is a boy?'
"'Let us solve this mystery at once,' I suggested.
"We took our lantern from the hooks and saddled our horses. It was
about nine of the clock when the bell began ringing and I warrant it was
not more than fifteen minutes later when we drew rein in front of
Dhalmatia. It was as dark as the pit and not a light was shining from
the windows, which on such a festive occasion should have been
illuminated. From the direction of the servants' quarters came the
sound of sobbing which grated horribly upon our ears.
"We pounded upon the heavy oak door with the hilts of our swords but
only the echoes answered us; the weeping continued. Presently the door
swung back a little way, slowly and it seemed to me cautiously, and the
'Fox' himself stood in the narrow opening, muffled to the eyes in his
long black cloak. When he saw who his visitors were, he was not pleased
and made as if to shut the door in our faces, but we placed our
shoulders against it, defeating his purpose.
"'Well?' he growled ungraciously.
"'The bell; the bell!' cried Nicholas' father with some anger, out of
breath with hard riding, 'what means this curious ringing of the tower
bell?'
"'Curious?' he sneered; 'curious? I like not your words, Framkor.
There is nothing unusual about it that I can discover.'
"'Did not you announce the birth of a daughter?'
"'The bell rang seven times,' returned the Fox.
"'Then Bharbazonia is without an heir in your house?'
"'Not so, my kind and most considerate neighbour,' he replied
sarcastically, 'you must still wait a little longer. Did you not hear
the bell ring also five times?'
"'The meaning! The meaning!' we both exclaimed.
"'It is perfectly clear, noble sirs,' he said. 'The house of Dhalmatia
has been honoured this night with the advent of both a daughter and a
son.'
"'Twins!' we cried, looking at each other and wondering why we had not
thought of it before. We saw that we had been hoping against hope, and
our worst fears were realized. I suppose our chagrin showed in our
faces for the 'Red Fox' seemed to enjoy our discomfiture. It was not in
our hearts to congratulate the old rogue. We could not lie for the sake
of an empty courtesy. We mounted our horses and rode away with the
discordant chuckle of the lord of Dhalmatia ringing in our ears."
"Nothing very suspicious in all that," drawled Nick, flicking his
cigarette into the sea. He had probably heard the story so often that
he had no interest in it.
"If I could only make you understand," sighed the General.
"But why were the servants crying?" I asked.
"That came out the next day," continued the old man, glad at least to
find one willing listener; "it seems that the old midwife, who was the
only person with the mother when the children were born, had fallen from
the tower in some strange way when she was tugging at the bell rope to
announce the birth of the girl. Her neck was broken."
"Who then rang the bell the second time?"
"The Red Fox."
"How great was the interval between the ringing?"
"There was scarcely a pause; it was almost immediate."
"Then the 'Red Fox' must have been very near the nurse in the tower."
"He must have been very near."
Both Nick and I smoked in silence, while the General took a turn around
the deck to still his excitement caused by his narration. Below, the
sea slipped swiftly, softly by as the liner throbbed her quiet course
through a vacant ocean. Overhead, the wireless spit and sputtered as
the operator talked to his fellow aboard an unseen ship possibly a
hundred miles away. It was as if the mocking voice of modern times were
laughing at the mysteries of the long dead past. If there was any
hidden meaning in the General's story it was exceedingly vague at best.
When he resumed his seat by our side I ventured to open the subject
again.
"Have you ever seen the Twins of Dhalmatia, General?"
"Oh, yes; many times," he replied.
"They exist, then."
"Oh, yes," he said, and from his manner I judged he would have added
"unfortunately" had he not hesitated to shock me.
"Well then, my dear General, be frank with us. What do you suspect?"
"My sentiments exactly," joined Nick lightly.
"I wish to Hercules I knew what I suspected," he answered with a sigh.
"All I know is that I have the feeling that all was not as it should be
the night we talked with Dhalmatia. It is with me still. Wait until you
know the 'Red Fox' as I do and you will understand."
"Bah," exclaimed Nick, "you gossip like an old woman. Do not put much
faith in what he says, Dale, about the master of Dhalmatia. Prejudice
is like a disorder of the blood; it sometimes causes hallucinations."
"Wait and see," returned the General. "I still believe that murder will
out."
"But even if your wild imaginings should prove true, why am I desired in
Bharbazonia?"
"That," said the General, "is your father's secret. Some day you shall
be told."
On different occasions during the voyage, I drew the General into a
discussion concerning the birth of the heir to the Bharbazonian throne,
but gleaned very little more information. The General described the
various times he had met the Prince and Princess. He was present on
both occasions when first one and then the other was christened at the
Cathedral of Nischon. These two events happened a week apart. He
entertained quite a friendship for the Prince, who was a great boar
hunter and horseman. The Princess he scarcely knew.
"I have never seen them in each other's society," he said, "because when
one was home on a vacation the other was usually away at school in
England or France. Most nobles of our little kingdom believe in the
boon of education for their children."
At Naples the General's yacht came alongside the liner at her dock and
we were transferred to the cramped quarters of still smaller staterooms.
Although it was midnight, and the passengers were not permitted to land,
the General seemed to possess sufficient authority to have the
automobile hoisted from the hold of the vessel and lashed securely to
the deck of his little craft. In the morning when I awoke I found that
we were well on our way toward the toe of the Italian peninsula.
For several days we steamed quietly along, the blue Mediterranean
beneath and the bluer sky above, until we entered the Dardanelles and
passed in front of the Turk's capital, the city of Constantinople. When
we came in sight of the white, flatroofed town, the captain hauled down
the white flag with the blue diagonals of the Russian navy and hoisted
the stars and stripes. What he meant by the deception I could not
imagine and, when I ventured to ask him, he laughed and said:
"What a man dinna' see he canna' forget."
A sunny old Scotchman was Captain MacPherson, and he took a great liking
to me because I knew his friend Thomas Anderson, who had charge of the
dissecting room at the University.
"Tamas was e'er a gude hand with those as could na answer him back,"
said the Captain. "His first occupation at hame was as an undertaker's
assistant. He comes by it honestly."
He pointed out the fortresses on both shores of the narrow channel,
which was only a mile wide in front of the city, and told me that the
Turks had mounted them with the most improved modern guns.
"They could e'en blow us out of the water," he said, "had they a mind
to."
Constantinople was like an open book to him and he showed me the
Sultan's Palace, standing white and high like an office building, the
Mosque of St. Sophia, and various points of interest as the city,
thrusting its myriad minarets to the sky, slipped swiftly by like a
beautiful panorama. Somewhere along these shores both Leander and Byron
swam the Hellespont, and Xerxes, the Persian king, smote the waves in a
rage because they, troubled by a storm, forbade for a time the passage
of his Greek conquering army. I was awakened from my historic reverie
by hearing the voice of Nicholas. He and the General were leaning over
the railing with their eyes fixed on the Palace of the Sultan. There
was an expression of intense hatred on the faces of both.
"Oh, Thou, who holdest the destinies of nations in thy hand; Oh, Thou,
who gavest the land of Canaan to thy chosen people; how long must we
wait the coming of that glad day when thou wilt send a Joshua to us,
that we may become the humble instruments of destiny to drive the Turk
from Europe back to the sands of Bagdad whence he sprang?"
"Amen," came the deep bass of the General.
"Amen," said the voice of Captain MacPherson at my elbow.
They watched the city in silence until distance and darkness swallowed
it up as the yacht continued its way up the north coast of the Black
Sea. So intent were the three in getting all the pleasure they could
out of their mutual hate that they forgot my existence entirely.
"French became an accomplishment rather than a necessity in the English
court in the fifteenth century," I said to Nick that evening at table.
"What do you mean?" he said with a frown.
"It is still the language of the Russian court. But why are you so
interested in fighting Russia's battles, you a Bharbazonian?"
"Archaic though she may be, I love Russia, Dale," he said, "for without
Russia there would have been no independent Bharbazonia to-day. Even now
she is paying into our treasury 24,000 rubles a year, which we in turn
must pay as tribute to the Turk."
"How soon shall we reach your little kingdom, Nick?"
"We should be there day after to-morrow."
Sure enough, on the day set the little yacht's engine came to a stop
early in the morning while we were still in our berths. All the gloom
had vanished and Nick was in high spirits when he came to get me up.
"All ashore for Bharbazonia. Change cars for the Belle of the Balkans.
This train doesn't go any further. Come, come, out of bed, you lazy
one. We are home at last!"
*CHAPTER IV*
*AT THE TURK'S HEAD INN*
Oh, Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
With tokens of old wars.
--_Bryant: Antiquity of Freedom_.
When I came on deck I found the Black Sea had disappeared and we were at
rest in a deep, narrow river which ran swiftly and noiselessly through a
sombre gorge between two high mountains that almost shut out the light
of day and hid the ocean from our sight. The sudden change of scene
from the hard white glare of the sea to the soft black sheen of the land
was startling. The foliage was so close to the ship that it seemed one
could almost reach out the hand and touch it, although the yacht was
moored at the end of a long dock. I experienced a foolish fear that the
high hills were about to fall upon the little vessel and crush it. That
impression wore off in a short time as the motion of the ship left me.
At the other side of the dock, set down upon a narrow space of rocky
level land between the mountains and the river, was the little fishing
village of Bizzett. In the rear the houses rose on terraces along the
edge of the mountain and in front the town extended into the river on
piles. There were no windows in the houses looking upon the street. If
windows existed at all, they opened upon an inner court.
All the women and children of the town were on the dock, curious to see
the travellers, filling the air with the babel of strange voices. It
was plain that the landing of the yacht was an event. A few of the
fishermen, who had not gone seaward upon their daily toil, were watching
us from their boats.
Some of the women, after the manner of Turkish women, wore veils over
their faces, having nothing but the eyes exposed, but the girls went
about uncovered, their long black hair braided and ornamented with
coins. The few of the male peasantry in sight were dressed much alike,
in brown sheepskin caps, jackets of undyed brown wool, which their women
folk spin and make, white cloth trousers and sandals of raw leather.
The natives were lively and hospitable. They greeted General Palmora
with loud cheers as soon as he stepped on the dock and several of the
older men came forward to shake him by the hand. The General, in
anticipation of his reception, had donned a splendid uniform richly
embossed with sparkling shoulder epaulettes and much gold braid. Nick,
on the other hand, stood beside me attired in a plain dark blue serge
suit which he had purchased in America. The women, walking two by two
with their arms around each other's waists, examined us curiously, but
the men never glanced once in our direction. Two young girls, without
the least timidity, stopped in front of us and examined us as if we were
tailors' models. That is to say, our clothes appeared to interest them
more than the men inside of them. They talked and laughed and even went
so far as to feel the texture of the goods. Their remarks made Nicholas
frown.
"What are they saying, Nick?" I asked.
"They are saying, 'The English dogs have well trained wives who weave
such fine cloth,'" he replied.
"You seem to be a stranger in your own country. These people take you
for a foreigner."
"They do not know me," he sighed. "The penalty one pays for being a
nomad. How they love the General!"
But the General's popularity faded when the automobile was placed upon
the dock, and Teju Okio became the centre of attraction. The townsfolk
crowded around the Jap boy, honked the horn with all the delight of
mischievous newsboys and watched each piece of baggage as it was stowed
away in the tonneau. But they departed with much speed and many
frightened cries when Okio started the engine, running in all directions
as if a demon had fallen from the sky in their midst. In a twinkling
the dock was vacant and the village apparently deserted. They only came
to the doors of their houses to watch us leave the village in a cloud of
dust. But our attention was brought to the front by an expression of
surprise from Teju Okio.
"Very dam-fine," he said, referring to the hill which the machine had to
climb. Teju's English vocabulary was limited to three words which he
used to express every emotion. This time it was admiration and respect.
And the road was worthy of both. It ran diagonally up the side of the
mountain until it reached the top at a depression or gap caused by two
mountains pressing their foreheads together. One could see the end from
the beginning, for it was a singularly straight road laid out as if the
builder had placed a schoolboy's ruler upon the mountainside, drawn a
line from the village to the gap and said, "Build ye here the way as I
have drawn it," just as the Tzar is said to have laid out his
eighteen-day railroad across Siberia.
A perfect arbour of tall trees lined both sides of the way, interlocking
their branches overhead. The foliage on the lower side of the mountain
was trimmed so as to give a view of the sea; the early morning sun
streamed gratefully in, taking the chill from the air and casting long
shadows across the road in front. As we ascended we looked back and saw
part of the village still in sight. The peasants were standing in the
streets, marking the progress of the strange vehicle which had within
itself the power to conquer the hill of Bizzett without the aid of oxen.
At the top was a stone fortress, called Castle Comada. It came in sight
suddenly as we reached level ground and turned our back to the sea.
Castle Comada was a spacious building completely filling up the gap and
extending across the road as far as the eye could reach among the trees.
The roadway ran through the centre of it in a sort of tunnel of solid
masonry and over this archway the main part of the castle rose higher
than the rest, supported on the four corners by square watch towers. A
fifth tower, even more lofty, sprang from the centre, and from this
tower snapping gaily in the wind was the flag of Bharbazonia, alternate
stripes of light blue and gold.
Beneath the castle walls, lining both sides of the way, were five
regiments of cavalry, their horses' heads forming a perfect line and
each man sitting erect in the saddle. As we came in sight, the garrison
band burst forth in the national air and, at the given order, hundreds
of bared sabres flashed in the sun and came to rest in an upright
position before each man's chin. The salute was for the General; the
army of the kingdom was welcoming home its commander-in-chief, warned,
possibly, the night before by the sharp-eyed watchman in the tower who
had sighted the yacht.
It was sure that the defences of the government, ever watchful of the
Turk, were in modern hands, and, if one noticed the look of pleasure on
the old General's countenance at the visible signs of a well oiled
system, one had not far to seek the master mind.
Nicholas preferred to remain in the car with me while the General paid
his respects to Governor Noovgor of the Southern Province. I was very
glad of that, because he was able to explain the country, whenever the
band was stilled long enough to permit conversation.
"This road is known as the Highway of Bizzett," Nick said. "Sometimes
it is called the 'King's Highway.' It traverses Bharbazonia from north
to south almost in a straight line over several hundred miles of
fertile, rolling country. The mountain range, running east and west as
you see, gradually turns toward the north until both arms meet at the
other end of the highway in a similar pass, guarded by a similar
fortress. Thus Castle Comada, on the Black Sea, and Castle Novgorod, on
the Russian border, are the Beersheba and Dan of Bharbazonia. No man may
enter or leave the country unless he pass under the guns of one or the
other; and let me tell you, Dale, there is no fortress in America, or in
any other country, which is the peer of these for modern disappearing
guns, garrison equipment, or perfection of discipline."
As the General seemed in no hurry, Nick and I killed time by strolling
around the grounds and inspecting the castle from all sides. I found
that its guns commanded not only the Black Sea and the harbour of
Bizzett, but also the approaches from the inland side; for the mountain
formed a precipitous wall at the castle foundations, which left us
standing on a high promontory, viewing, like Moses, a land flowing with
milk and honey. Below us lay a level country, which even in its winter
garb showed evidences of being in an excellent state of cultivation.
Here and there were villages clustered along the great limestone
pike--the straight white way of Bharbazonia.
An army attacking the fortress from either side would be equally
powerless. Nicholas had every reason to be proud of his country's war
craft, but, in spite of the modern atmosphere of the cavalry, there was
something about this Bharbazonia that smacked to me of the fourteenth
century, when men slept at night behind the barred gates of their walled
cities.
The General was already in his seat beside Teju Okio when we returned.
He was impatient to be off; but, before we were able to enter the
Kingdom, ten soldiers put their shoulders to a pair of solid iron gates
that blocked the road through the Castle, and swung them open. The guns
fired their salute to the commander-in-chief, the band struck up a
lively air, and the Jap boy threw in his high speed clutch.
As we raced through the tunnel and down the hill on the other side, I
looked back and saw the men close the gates, those relics of the hundred
years' war against the terrible Turk, and knew that we were locked in
the Kingdom of Bharbazonia. The sun shone warmly down upon us, the
peaceful valley lay invitingly below, but somehow I felt as a mouse must
feel as he peers between the wire openings of his trap and realizes that
he cannot get out.
Once free of the mountain, we sped along through a country as beautiful
as any in America. Farmers, working in the fields, paused at their
labour to watch us go by. Teju made the most of a fine road and lifted
us along at the rate of sixty miles an hour, leaving many slain chickens
behind to mark his swift passage.
Fortunately there was little travel along the highway that morning, for
we frightened every human being and every animal we met. Patient
plodding horses, dragging creaking carts in the same direction in which
we were going, were too surprised to continue their journey. They stood
still in their tracks unable to move until we disappeared over the crest
of the next hill. The drivers, open-mouthed, were too startled to urge
them. But the horses we met coming toward us had more time to watch our
approach and thrill with fear. All of them lowered their heads, pricked
up their ears and, like the cows, showed signs of confusion as to which
side of the road they should take; then, as we came opposite, they
bolted across the front of the speeding machine into the adjoining
field. Their frightened owners, slowly gathering courage in a ditch,
shook their fists and hurled Bharbazonian epithets after us.
It is amusing to play havoc in a country where there are no license
tags, no mounted policemen and no fines to pay.
At noontide we made our first stop at a fine old road-house called the
Turk's Head Inn. It was a queer little brick and red stone structure
approaching the colonial style of architecture in its small, leaded
glass windows and white paint, with the curious addition of Byzantine
doors and windows, the result of Turkish influence. The main doorway,
with its huge circular top, was in the centre of the building and formed
an imposing entrance, reaching to the second floor. On an iron arm,
extending from the top of this doorway, hung the signboard after which
the inn was named.
It presented no written words; only a terrible life-sized painting of a
Turk's head, dripping with blood and resting on a spear point. A red
fez sat jauntily over one ear, giving the head a gala appearance; but
the eyes, wide open, staring eyes, speedily dispelled any such thought.
They were filled with a terrible expression of pain and horror, as if
the head still breathed and felt the agony of the spear piercing its
inmost brain, while its lips moved in the throes of cursing its
tormentors, even in the face of death. The frightful signboard sent a
shudder through me which the General noticed.
"What a grewsome thing," I said.
"It is the head of Helmud Bey," he replied, looking into the suffering
eyes without a show of compassion; "he ruled over my sad country for
forty years, the creature of the Sultan. So great was his ferocity that
even now the peasantry tremble at the mention of his name. He was
killed in this Inn thirty years ago by Oloff Gregory, the king. Clad in
suits of French mail, they fought on horseback with sword and spear,
while the Turkish and Bharbazonian army looked on, drawn up out there on
opposite sides of the road.
"It was agreed that whichever champion won, his forces would be declared
victorious without further fighting. It was the Turks' last stand after
Shipka Pass and, had Gregory lost, Bharbazonia might not now be free.
At the first shock Gregory unhorsed Helmud Bey and was himself thrown to
the ground. Then the fighting was continued with heavy swords until the
Turk, badly wounded, fled within the inn where Bharbazonia's champion
killed him by cutting off his head.
"For a long time the head was displayed on the victor's pike before the
roadhouse door. The Turks surrendered and the war was over. By this
feat of arms Gregory became king, for, when Russia tried to rehabilitate
the kingdom, she found that the Turks had killed or driven into exile
every member of the royal house of Bharbazonia which was reigning in the
fifteenth century before the time of the conquering Salaman the
Magnificent. Gregory, you know, was only a soldier and a noble. His
house never laid claim to royalty. And that is why his brother, the
'Red Fox,' is still a Duke although his children by special grant of the
King are Prince and Princess of the land."
At the inn were the usual number of idlers. They gathered around the
car at a respectful distance and watched us dismount. The innkeeper, in
white apron and with bared head, appeared in the high doorway,
scattering the crowd to make a passageway for us. He was a jolly old
Frenchman.
"Back, ye hounds," he shouted in his native tongue, "cannot ye give the
gentry room to alight?"
If the Bharbazonians understood they made no sign; neither did they give
back a pace, standing their ground like stolid cattle. The reign of the
invader had left the common people in a condition little above the
brute. Gone was the warlike spirit of their Slavonic ancestors who
inhabited the banks of the Volga in the seventh century. I experienced
a feeling of pity for them. Ignorance, poverty and suffering had been
their birthright. I could scarcely bring myself to believe that Nick
and the General were their countrymen.
"Welcome home, my General," exclaimed the Frenchman.
"Thank you, Marchaud," returned the General. "What news have you?"
"Ah, sir; such coming and going. The coronation is all the talk. The
Grand Duke Marbosa was here yesterday with the young men. You know,
General," he added, winking slyly.
"Yes, I understand," said Palmora. "What then?"
"He was impatient for your return. He has a plan which lacks only your
approval."
"Humph. How goes the dinner?"
"You are just in time. Will you enter?"
Again he made a passageway through the peasants with angry shouting and
waving of hands. They were all respect for the General; some bowed in
the dust before him and others raised a feeble cheer. He paid no
particular attention to them.
The innkeeper led the way to the interior of his hostelry. Once past
the door, we were immediately in the large room of the inn. On one side
was a broad stairway which communicated with a balcony which in turn had
access to all the sleeping rooms on the second floor. Off from the main
room were smaller rooms, like booths, where the dining tables, covered
with snow white linen, were invitingly set. He placed us at one of these
tables and, with the assistance of two of his waiters, soon had a
splendid feast spread before us.
The General was the life of the party. He was hungry and, judging from
the amount of native wine he indulged in, thirsty, too. The change in
Nick was also remarkable. Ever since his eyes fell upon the flag of
Bharbazonia, and the well set-up cavalrymen at the castle, he seemed to
grow in stature. Usually lazy and indolent, he became alert and active,
as if the sleeping tiger within arose at the call of the setting sun to
go forth to the water runs. Here, indeed, was a new Nicholas. The
American youth whom I knew was becoming a Bharbazonian.
"Everything goes well for the great event," said the General, when we
arrived at the coffee and cigarette stage of the repast. "Governor
Noovgor tells me that he and Governor Hasson of the Northern Province
will have 25,000 men before the Cathedral, both infantry and cavalry.
The Tzar will be represented by a regiment of Cossacks from Moscow, and
the Grand Duke Alexoff will come from St. Petersburg as the Emperor's
personal representative. The first day of the new year will be a great
day for Bharbazonia, my boy."
"You couldn't be more interested in the crowning of the Red Fox's son
than if it were I you were honouring," said Nick, a bit petulantly.
"My boy; my boy," said the old man, patting his favourite on the back
with a show of affection, "little prejudices must fall before
patriotism."
"I wish you knew how repulsive this incognito business is becoming to
me," said Nick. "I could scarcely keep myself from swinging my hat in
the air and shouting for the flag when I saw those splendid fellows
drawn up in front of Comada."
"All in good time," purred the General, pleased at Nick's reference to
the army; "for the present it is best that I should be entertaining two
American travellers. I do not want the Red Fox or his following to know
who you are. If they suspect you, your usefulness to Russia would come
to an end. For what they know is soon talked of in Constantinople. You
must not forget that you are more than a Bharbazonian. You are of the
Order."
The General's words had their effect upon Nicholas.
"I shall be glad when the day arrives that I can fight in the open," he
said, much mollified. "I never felt so weary of this secret work as I
do to-day."
"Am I to understand, General," I said, "that Nick is supposed to be an
American?"
"Such is the intention, Dr. Wharton," he replied. "Should occasion
arise, we will appreciate it if you will tell your questioner that
Nicholas is a countryman of yours."
"Come," said Nick, "let us get started."
"How much further do we have to go to-night?" I asked, as we arose from
the table.
"We will not reach Framkor until to-morrow evening," put in the General,
but Nick interrupted him with a laugh.
"Why, General, we are at the Turk's Head Inn now, and it is not yet two
o'clock. We shall be home before nightfall."
"So it is," murmured the old man. "It is the machine. I cannot become
used to it. We usually consume two days coming from Bizzett on
horseback."
Leaving the inn, we struck off into the country roads to the right and
the travelling was not as luxurious as on the smooth government pike.
Nevertheless, Teju Okio made good time. Toward evening, when we were
near enough to our journey's end for Nick to recognize the country and
point out some of his childhood haunts, we met a horseman on the road.
It was just after the Jap boy lighted his two gleaming headlights, for
the day was almost done. It may have been the glare of the lamps or the
suddenness of our approach around an unexpected corner that caused the
accident; for, as soon as the horse caught sight of us, he reared on his
hind feet, stood upright in the air a moment and toppled over backward,
crushing his rider beneath him in the fall.
Teju Okio stopped the machine as soon as he saw the frightened horse and
we all shouted directions to the horseman; when they fell, Nick and I
leaped from the machine to render what aid we might. Before we could
grasp his bridle the horse struggled to his feet and was off like the
wind, the empty stirrups pounding his ribs at every jump; but the rider
lay motionless.
He was a youth of about eighteen or twenty years. His wide riding
breeches and neat fitting coat of black velvet were covered with dust;
but they were not torn, neither did they show any evidence of blood
which would have shown had the horse kicked and cut him. Although he
lay crumpled in a heap, I was able to see that he was tall and slender
and that one arm was either dislocated or broken. His eyes were closed
and his face was exceedingly pale. His most distinguishing feature was
the mass of red hair, which he wore as long as Nick's, and which was of
a dark rich shade.
Nick tenderly raised the sufferer's head, while I tried to get some
whiskey down his throat. But the boy showed no signs of returning
consciousness.
"Better get him into the car, Nick, and take him to the nearest
hospital," I advised.
"Hospital?" smiled Nick. "The nearest approach to one is at the Castle
barracks. You are the best medico we have in Bharbazonia, Dale. Get
busy yourself."
Teju Okio edged slowly up with the car until his white lights shone upon
the scene in the road.
"Is he badly hurt?" called the General from his seat beside the driver.
"We do not know the extent of his injuries, General," I said, "he is
unconscious."
"Who is he, Nick?"
"Haven't an idea."
The lamplight fell upon the boy's face.
"Good heavens," exclaimed the General, "get him into the machine as
quickly as possible. We must procure medical assistance at once. On,
on, to Dhalmatia Castle. This is the Red Fox's son, Prince Raoul, the
future King of Bharbazonia. He must not die. Hurry! Hurry! for God's
sake!"
*CHAPTER V*
*THE RED FOX OF DHALMATIA*
He entered in the house--his home no more;
For without hearts there is no home;--and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome.
--_Byron: Don Juan_.
Castle Dhalmatia proved to be but a short distance ahead. I held the
unconscious Prince in my arms while Nick leaned forward and called road
directions into the Japanese driver's ear. General Palmora remembered a
byway which was a short cut across the Red Fox's estate and we saved
several minutes thereby. The walls of the Prince's home loomed up black
and sombre against the sky line on the top of a hill vacant of trees.
Like Castle Comada it was a fortress built for defence rather than for
comfort. Its battlements and watchtowers were stern and forbidding.
Rapid as were our movements, the news of the accident preceded us, borne
no doubt by the returning horse with the empty saddle. Stable grooms
were coming down the road toward us carrying lanterns; house servants
were arousing the master. Some were weeping aloud, running wildly about;
others were shouting orders and talking, like persons who desired to do
something but did not know what to do. Lights began to show in
different rooms of the castle and, when we drew up with a rush and a
grinding of brakes under the _porte-cochere_, a crowd of retainers were
there to meet us.
As soon as they caught sight of the limp figure in my arms they imagined
the Prince dead and their wailings broke out afresh. In the midst of
the excitement, which even the commanding voice of the General failed to
quell, a little, bent, old man with a weazen, wrinkled face, but with a
certain virility of manner which proclaimed him master, appeared in the
doorway. His voice vibrated through the air and forced obedience. He
called to his servants in the Bharbazonian dialect and a silence fell
upon them, in which there was more of fear than of love. I knew at once
that I was in the presence of the Red Fox of Dhalmatia, the father of
the Prince.
Standing in the lantern light he made a curious picture. He was attired
in black from head to foot. On his head was a black fez that only
partially concealed a mass of hair which, though darker in shade and
streaked with gray, was the same colour as his son's. The first part of
the Red Fox's name was derived no doubt from the colour of his hair.
Around his neck was a broad lace collar of white, extending to his
narrow shoulders. He wore a close fitting coat buttoned up the front
with a row of large ornamental buttons. Knee breeches with buckles at
the side, silk stockings, and buckled shoes made up the rest of his
costume. Over his shoulders hung a long Spanish cloak which partially
concealed the hilt of a jewelled sword suspended from his left hip.
There was that about him which suggested the stern, hard, old Pilgrim
fathers who conquered the Massachusetts wilderness and burned witches
three centuries ago.
If he felt any emotion at the condition of his son, he did not permit
himself to show it, but, with a gesture in which was the majesty of
command, he bade me enter with my burden.
I carried the Prince to the nearest couch in the spacious hallway,
followed by Nick and the General. The Red Fox shut the door in the faces
of his servants and dismissed them with a few terse words. The only one
he permitted to remain was an aged man whom I recognized was the butler.
The room was dark and this old fellow held a lantern close to the boy's
face and fell into a fit of weeping. As soon as I placed the Prince on
the divan, and before I could make an examination, I was rather rudely
brushed aside by the boy's father and the old butler, both of whom
seemed suddenly crazed by the accident.
They crowded me away and bent over the Prince, together making a rapid,
superficial examination of the boy for broken bones, and finding none.
There was a slight wound above the right ear and a cut on the left arm
above the elbow. The right arm was dislocated. With the old servant's
assistance, the father experienced little difficulty in slipping it back
into place. I was rather impressed with the Red Fox's deftness and
sureness of touch.
During the examination, General Palmora explained that I was a physician
and that I could give the Prince the best of treatment. He made his
explanations in French, which I think was for my benefit, and the Red
Fox replied in the same tongue.
"A doctor," he queried, "what have we to do with doctors in Dhalmatia?"
"But, my dear Duke, the boy is seriously injured."
"So? So?" cried the Fox, "and is that any reason why I should permit
strangers to intrude upon the privacy of my house, especially friends of
yours, Palmora, to run things as they please?"
"I would have you understand, sir," replied the General with dignity,
"that only such untoward circumstances as the present would have
permitted me to enter your house, and to so far forget the respect I owe
my friends as to allow them to cross your threshold."
"'Tis unfortunate," said the Duke, still working over the boy. "The
General should remember that the House of Dhalmatia can take care of
itself."
"The General did not forget," replied the soldier, hotly; "but in this
case he begs the Duke to consider that the Prince is not the son of
Dhalmatia--"
"What!" shouted the Duke, going suddenly pale with extreme agitation and
advancing threateningly toward the General, who did not seem to mind the
feelings the remarks were stirring up.
"Not the son of Dhalmatia, but the heir to the throne of Bharbazonia,
and therefore he is my liege lord and master. As a patriot I must care
for him. Beside, it was our automobile which caused his accident."
The Duke sank down on his knees beside the couch at his son's feet as if
his strength had forsaken him. He offered no further objection to our
presence and watched as the old servant attempted to revive the patient.
When at last, under the effect of the restorative, the boy opened his
eyes the first person he saw and smiled upon was his father. Then his
eyes met mine.
They were the most beautiful I have ever seen in a boy's head, and they
thrilled me with the look of quiet suffering in them. Large and
expressive, they reminded me of Nicholas in his best mood, when he sang
his Balkan love songs. From the colour of the Prince's hair I expected
his eyes to be a pale blue, but, on the contrary, they were a deep rich
brown, almost black. Shining in their mysterious depth was something
akin to sorrow, which I could not understand but which became clearer
later.
The old Duke did not seem greatly relieved when his son recovered
consciousness; possibly he realized that the boy had been nearer death
than he imagined; possibly there was another reason. At all events, he
waved us all back from the couch and gathered the Prince in his arms.
"My son! My son!" he repeated again and again, sometimes in French and
sometimes in his own language. But it did not seem to me to be the
agonized cry of a broken-hearted father; there was a note of caution in
it, as if he would say, "My son, be careful; the enemies of your father
are present."
The Prince lay still, studying each face in the room over his father's
shoulder. He recognized the General with a bright friendly smile. The
General returned the salutation with a frigid ceremonial bow. Nick
seemed to puzzle him. He looked at the handsome youth a long time as if
trying to remember where they had met before, and yet not sure they had
met at all.
"If you are satisfied, Dr. Wharton, that the patient is on a fair way to
recovery," broke in the General, still chafing under the impoliteness of
the Duke, "I suggest that we take our departure from this ungrateful
house."
But his voice was gentle and caressing when he added to the Prince:
"I trust your Highness will experience no further evil results from your
unfortunate fall."
"We also crave the Prince's pardon for causing his fall, and will do
ourselves the honour of calling with the doctor in the morning to
inquire after his health."
While Nicholas was speaking the Duke shifted his head so that he could
see the young man's face over his shoulder without appearing to do so.
All the time he seemed to be devoting his whole attention to his son.
The movement was secretive and, I thought, uncalled for; but it revealed
why those who knew him called him "The Fox."
"Before we go," I said in my character of physician, "I would suggest
that the Prince remain in bed for the next few days in order to rest the
arm which was dislocated and to determine the presence, if any, of
internal injuries. With your permission, Duke, I will take the liberty
of calling again. I trust, if anything develops which you may not feel
equal to coping with, that you will not hesitate to make use of my
services."
With the Grand Duke's cry of "My son! My son!" as our only answer, we
bowed our way through the doorway and entered the car which was still
chug-chugging away at the door, the tired Jap boy asleep at the wheel.
It was very dark when we resumed our journey, which was quickly at an
end. Two miles from Dhalmatia we turned through a high stone archway of
a private estate and came to Castle Framkor.
It was too dark for me to see anything of the outside of the castle
except the _porte-cochere_, under which we stopped, and the open front
door from which the servants trooped with cries of welcome. If there was
a similarity about the entrance there was none in the spirit of the two
castles.
A tri-colour collie dog was the first to greet us. He ran wildly about
the car barking at the engines and sniffing at the visitors. He
recognized the General and tried to get into the seat with him.
"Down, Laddie; down, sir," commanded his master as he sprang to the
ground, to be overwhelmed by the excited dog, which leaped against his
shoulder and tried to caress his face.
Willing hands opened the tonneau door and Nick and I descended. The dog
sniffed at our legs and growled at us. Smiling women servants gathered
around the master while the men, in obedience to his commands, carried
our trunks and hand luggage into the hall.
"Welcome home to Framkor, Nicholas," cried the General. It was the
first word he had spoken since his farewell speech at Dhalmatia. But
all his gloom had left him.
Nicholas made no reply. Not a single servant knew him and no one
welcomed him back to his own home. While it was indeed a splendid
homecoming for the General, I pitied Nick and realized what he had been
sacrificing all his life for the sake of his country. It is one thing
to choose a vocation for yourself and quite another to have some one
choose it for you.
The hall room was comfortably warmed by an open grate fire which burned
under the mantelpiece. Above hung a full length picture of a man about
the General's age in scarlet regimentals. He bore a striking
resemblance to Nick.
"That's dad," said the boy as we gathered round the fire to drive out
the cold of the night. He looked long and earnestly upon his father's
portrait. What moody thoughts were passing in his mind I could not
imagine. But the sternness of the pictured face was reflected in the
living one beneath.
"What we need most of all is dinner," said the General.
"Hear, hear," I cried lightly.
The thought was scarcely expressed before a servant bade us enter the
dining room. The meal that followed could not have been surpassed by
the French chef at the Turk's Head Inn. Bharbazonia might be archaic,
but Framkor Castle under the direction of Nick's father's executor was
delightfully modern. I promised myself considerable gastronomic
enjoyment during my vacation in Bharbazonia.
After the feast, which we all ate with a hunger born of our long ride in
the bracing air, the General and I settled ourselves in the drawing room
for a long, comfortable chat before bedtime. I was burning to learn
more about the Red Fox, now that I had seen the Castle tower from which
the old nurse fell the night the Prince was born. The General was still
suffering from his injured feelings.
"Can you wonder, now, why I hate the Fox?" he said. "The ingrate, to
return our kindness with such discourtesy. The low-bred hound, better
we had left his son in the road to die. Never again will I find myself
under his roof and you boys, too, would do well not to visit that castle
again. He will insult you if you attempt it; now mark my words."
Nick, who did not share my interest in the Red Fox, had gone on an
exploring trip through the house, recalling childhood memories. He came
into the music room adjoining and began fingering the keys of the piano.
"I am glad, at all events," he called, "that the young fellow was not
seriously hurt."
"Humph," grunted Palmora under his breath, "you would have more reason
to be happy if the horse had made a good job of it."
At this remarkable outburst I stared at the regicidal old person, who,
seeing my surprise, leaped to his feet and paced the floor, pulling on
his long pipe to keep his temper down. No doubt he felt that he had
overreached himself, for he came back with an apology.
"There are things in this Kingdom that are unknown even to Nicholas," he
said mildly, lowering his voice. "I trust that the time will come when
it will be given him to know. Then I would like to be the messenger."
"The Prince," I said, "is the handsomest boy I have ever seen."
But the General did not reply. He was listening with rapt attention to
the fine whole-souled barytone voice of his Bharbazonian boy, singing a
folksong in the language. The expression on his face partook of the
look of a devout worshipper before his best loved shrine.
"_Volt nekem egy daru ssoru paripam_," sang Nick.
The accompaniment he was playing was in that weird minor strain which
always sends a shiver down one's back. The words of the song told of
the sorrow of a nation in bondage. It was an old favourite with me, for
Nick often sang it when the lights were low and the schoolroom problems
were laid away for the night. I admired it so much that Nick gave me
the music, written by Francis Korbay, and it was even now lying on my
piano at home. In English the song runs:
"Had a horse, a finer no man ever saw;
But the sheriff sold him in the name of law.
E'en a stirrup cup the rascal would not yield.
But, no matter! more was lost at Mohacs' field.
"Had a farmhouse, but they burnt it to the ground;
Don't know even where the spot may now be found.
In the county roll 'tis safe inscribed and sealed;
But, no matter! more was lost at Mohacs' field.
"Had a sweetheart; mourned her loss for years and years;
Thought her dead and every day gave her my tears.
Now, I find her 'neath another's roof and shield;
But, no matter! more was lost at Mohacs' field."
As Nick poured his soul into the rendition of the war song of the
Balkans, a song which he told me every native knew and revered as he
loved his Bible, I could almost picture the little handful of 25,000 men
who fell before the overwhelming force of 200,000 Turks on that fateful
day, August 29, 1526, when "Mohacsnal" became to the Slavs what "Don't
give up the ship" was to the Americans hundreds of years later. I was
not surprised to hear the General's deep bass join in the single line
refrain at the close of each verse:
"No, de se baj, tobb is veszett Mohacsnal!"
With such a spirit abroad in the land, I could understand how the
defeated but unconquered Hungarian and Balkan warriors continued the
struggle until there is little left of the dwindling empire of the
"unspeakable Turk" in Europe to-day except the dissatisfied country
around his capital city of Constantinople.
"Great song," panted the General when Nick concluded, but the light of
battle died out of his eyes when Nick, after a few preliminary chords,
broke into the popular American songs of the day and cleared the
atmosphere of its political heaviness. We were all in the best of
spirits when we retired. Although there were many rooms in the castle, I
found to my delight that Nick and I were to sleep together in his
boyhood chamber. Possibly it was the association of ideas, but believe
it who will, we romped about like children and did not get to sleep
until the General came to the door to interrupt our pillow fight with
the natural complaint that he was unable to sleep, and the dry
suggestion that we repair to the lawn to finish it.
At sight of the bristling old warrior in his pink nightcap and pajamas
to match, we scurried beneath the covers with such a perfect imitation
of two naughty boys who expected to be spanked and put to bed, that even
the General, forgetting his irritation, was forced to lose his gravity
and join in the general merriment.
Long after the lights were out and we were quieted down, too tired to
laugh any more, I heard Nick drawl sleepily in memory of our college
days:
"Let's go over to Woodland avenue and steal a lamp post."
Outside a gentle wind rustled the ivy vines clinging patiently to the
Castle wall. Not another sound disturbed the stillness of the country
night. Overcome by the silence I drifted away in the arms of sleep well
content with my first hours in the Kingdom of Bharbazonia.
The next day we met Solonika.
*CHAPTER VI*
*SOLONIKA'S SUMMER-HOUSE*
And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
--_Gay: Fables_.
The General's was one of those angelic, choleric dispositions that
frequently blow up under pressure of sudden anger, but emerge smiling
from the havoc of the explosion, bearing no malice. When we met him at
the breakfast table the next morning, the only reference he made to the
boyish escapade of the night before was concealed in his pleasant
greeting.
"Good morning, children."
"Good morning, sir," we unisoned like a Greek chorus.
"What new deviltry are you two planning this morning?"
We assured him that we felt our age and the responsibilities of life,
and that we intended henceforth to be very good boys indeed if he would
cease reminding us of our youth.
The talk about the table was of the impending coronation. The General
was impatient for news as to how the preparations for that great event
were progressing. During his rapid journey to America, in search of
Nicholas, much had been done, but he had no doubt much remained undone.
"How would you both like to run down to Nischon with me?" he asked. "We
will be back by nightfall if we take the machine."
To my surprise Nicholas did not immediately acquiesce. He usually found
it agreeable to do what the General proposed, but for some reason he did
not grow enthusiastic over the coronation. As for myself, it did not
suit my purpose to go to the capital city, much as I desired to see it.
I had other plans, but I could not tell the General for fear of risking
his displeasure. For, notwithstanding his admonition to the contrary, I
intended to go over to Castle Dhalmatia and see the Prince. Down in my
heart I suppose was the hope that I might also make the acquaintance of
his twin sister the Princess Solonika. Ever since I heard their
romantic story from the General's lips, I experienced a great desire to
get to the bottom of the mystery and prove the General right or wrong.
The opportunity of seeing Nischon was mine any time, but the chance of
visiting the inhospitable Castle in the guise of a physician was not to
be lost.
"The king has set his heart upon making this occasion one long to be
remembered in Bharbazonia, and we must stand ready to help him,"
continued the General. "He will be happy to see you, the heir of
Framkor, Nicholas. He loves the young men of his country and was much
interested in my trip to find you."
Still Nicholas remained silent.
"Don't you care to go?" asked Palmora.
"If my preference is to be considered, Godfather," said Nick, "I would
rather stay at home. I will gladly accompany you another time. But
to-day I am tired after our long journey."
"And you?" said the General turning to me.
"I would rather stay here with Nick."
"All right," he replied, "I will go alone, provided I may borrow your
car, Nick."
"Gladly," said Nick, relieved at being let off so easily.
Teju Okio brought the big machine under the _porte-cochere_, and we were
preparing to see the General off when a lone horseman cantered up the
driveway among the trees, his long Spanish cloak waving in the breeze
and his sword jangling at his side. He was a good looking black haired
youth, and he rode his charger with the ease of a cavalryman. It took
all his horsemanship to get his restive animal to face the running
engines, but by dint of a liberal use of spurs and much coaxing he
finally came within hailing distance.
The General seemed to recognize him and returned his salute graciously.
Upon the rider's breast, under his wind-tossed cloak, was the same kind
of a Greek cross, two parallel bars and one at an angle, which I had
seen both the General and Nicholas wearing upon the yacht. Whatever his
business was, it was speedily transacted. He shouted a question at the
General, received a reply, waved a parting salute, and was off like the
wind, his struggling steed showing a fine pair of heels to the demon in
the _porte-cochere_.