THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE
[Illustration: “OVER AND OVER WE ROLLED IN THE DUSTY ROAD.”
_Page 15_]
The Queen’s
Advocate
[Illustration]
_By ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT_
_Author of “When I Was Czar,” “For Love or Crown,”
“A Courier of Fortune,” “In The Name of a
Woman,” “Sarita the Carlist,” etc., etc._
[Illustration]
_A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers_
_NEW YORK_
[Illustration]
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE RESCUE 9
II. KARASCH 25
III. MORE WITCHCRAFT 39
IV. A CONTEST IN WILL POWER 53
V. UNWELCOME VISITORS 67
VI. A FIGHT FOR THE HORSES 82
VII. ESCAPE 94
VIII. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 107
IX. FROM BAD TO WORSE 121
X. AT POABJA 137
XI. TO SAMAC 150
XII. ON THE HILL AT SAMAC 162
XIII. PREPARING FOR THE CAMPAIGN 176
XIV. ELMA 190
XV. DEVELOPMENTS 204
XVI. THE ARMY’S PLANS 217
XVII. THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE 232
XVIII. A DECLARATION OF WAR 246
XIX. PRINCE ALBREVICS 263
XX. THE INSULT 278
XXI. THE DUEL 291
XXII. THE SCENT OF PERIL 304
XXIII. A PLAN OF DEFENCE 317
XXIV. THE NIGHT OF TERROR 330
XXV. IN GATRINA’S HOUSE 343
XXVI. CHRIS TO THE RESCUE 356
XXVII. MY DEFENCE 369
XXVIII. “I CANNOT LEAVE MY COUNTRY” 383
XXIX. PETROSCH HAS A PLAN 396
XXX. THE CAMP AGAIN 409
The Queen’s Advocate
CHAPTER I.
THE RESCUE.
Crack!
It was a rifle shot, sure enough, somewhere in the hills, and Chris
raised his huge head with a low growl and thrust his nose against me in
warning.
I was lying on the flat of my back, my hands clasped under my head,
thinking lazily, as I watched the glorious sunset amid the Gravenje
hills--where the play of sunset colour is at times almost as fine as in
Colorado--and speculated when the storm which was brewing would break.
I had just been chuckling at the idea of what the men in Wall Street
or the dandies of Fifth Avenue would have thought of Chase F. Bergwyn,
millionaire, mine-owner, and financier, could they have seen me then
vagabondising in the Bosnian hills. My dress was a kind of nondescript
native costume, half peasant’s, half miner’s, very dirty and worn with
my rough prospecting work; and I carried a ten days’ growth of scrubby
beard on my sun-tanned face. The report of the rifle stopped the
chuckle on my lips.
One of my men must have been after some hill game, I guessed, and
in the eagerness of the chase had disobeyed my strict orders against
shooting. I was anxious not to draw any unnecessary attention to my
doings. I was after another pile, in fact. When in Vienna, just before,
I had been offered what appeared to be a good thing in the shape of a
concession to work a rich mining district in these Bosnian hills, and,
as I still had a touch of the vagabond in me, I was roughing it in
order that I might look into the thing for myself.
I knew that part of Eastern Europe pretty well. I had lived there as
a lad with a relative stationed in Prague, and as I had the knack of
picking up the Balkan languages, he had found me of such use that he
had taken me with him on many an expedition among the hills in Bosnia,
Servia, and Herzgovina.
I had delighted in the hills, and had carried my love for them across
the Atlantic when things changed and I went to the States in search
of fortune. After a time of pretty hard rough-and-tumble hurly-burly
buffetting I had “struck it rich,” and turned up in New York wealthy
enough to play a strong hand in the big gambles of Wall Street.
Then the wandering fever laid hold of me again, and, remembering my
days in the Balkans, I was seized with the idea of utilising the old
experiences for business purposes. There was money to be made, I
believed; and I opened up communications with folks in Belgrade and
Sofia, and was in Vienna, on my way to the Servian capital, when this
Bosnian mining affair turned up.
The pile was there right enough, just waiting for someone to come
along and harvest it. But whether the difficulties of harvesting
it could be overcome, I should have to settle elsewhere; and until
they were settled I didn’t wish to draw the inquisitive eyes of any
blockheads of Austrian officials upon me.
There were other dangers, too. Lalwor, a hill village, was not far off,
and the reports about the villagers were not pleasing. They were not
likely to jump one’s claim, or do anything of that sort, but were said
to be quite ready to knock me on the head if they had an inkling that I
was a rich foreigner. That at least was the opinion of the man who had
acted as my guide; and probably he knew.
So that, altogether, that shot annoyed me; and I sat up, thinking no
more about either New York or the sunset, but just how to find out who
had fired it, and bent upon punishing him for disobedience. Not so
easy this last as it would have been, had I disliked all the four men
composing my party less and trusted them more.
Crack!
Another shot. This time nearer.
Chris showed greater uneasiness than before, and getting up ran forward
sniffing the air. Almost immediately afterwards I heard a faint
throbbing sound on the earth, uncommonly like a horse’s gallop. But who
could be galloping our way? No one who was at all likely to be welcome;
that was certain. I scented trouble, and calling the dog back crouched
with him behind a bush-covered hillock and gazed, not without some
anxiety, up and down the steep, rough mountain road.
The camp--which consisted of a cottage or hut for my use, a shed for
the horses, and a tent for the men--lay two or three hundred yards
along a gully, which branched off at right angles from this road. I was
lying at the mouth of the gully, and from my position commanded a view
from the top to the bottom of the hill, about a mile in length.
Crack! crack!
Two more shots in quick succession; the throbbing sound of the hoofs
came nearer and nearer; and a horse and rider showed at the top of the
hill. I caught my breath in surprise as I saw the rider was a woman,
who was urging her horse, a wiry little white animal, to its utmost
efforts as it dashed at break-neck speed down the steep, winding,
boulder-strewn, dangerous road.
Next, two horsemen came into sight and, with a loud shout, one of them
reined up, and taking deliberate aim fired at the fugitive woman. My
eye was on her as the shot rang out, and I saw the little white beast
start, and swerve as if hit. The next instant the blood began to run
freely over the flank, and the horse’s gait told me it was badly
wounded.
The men behind saw it, too; and the brute who had fired the shot
shouted to his companion, and then continued the pursuit.
The chase was all but over. The white horse struggled on gamely, but
as it neared the gully where I lay the pace slackened ominously.
Its rider looked back at her pursuers, and then across the ravine;
and then, to my further amazement, I saw that she was no more than
a girl in years--and a very pretty one, too; her face flushed with
the excitement of the mad gallop, her eyes wide with alarm, and her
features set with the courage of desperate resolve.
Her pursuers realised her plight; and being now sure of capturing her,
slung their guns and rode down the ugly path very cautiously.
I made ready to take my share in the business. I had my revolver in my
hip pocket, and drew it out, but did not show myself. My intention was
to let her pass and then get between her and the men. But her horse
was done. The bullet had evidently found the artery, for the blood
was spurting out fast; and just before she reached the spot where I
crouched the poor beast lurched badly and half sank on its quarters.
The rider had only time to jump cleverly and quickly from the saddle
when the end came, and the gallant little horse rolled over.
She must have given up all for lost then; but she showed no sign of
faltering courage. One swift, desperate glance round she gave, as if in
search of some chance of escape, and I saw her face was pale and set,
but full of determination. Then, drawing a dainty little stiletto from
her dress, she stood at bay behind the body of the dying horse with a
calmness all eloquent of pluck and nerve.
Meanwhile, with Chris at my heel, and keeping as much as possible under
cover, I crept forward until I was opposite to her. The men dismounted
when they were still some fifty yards or so above her, and they were
rushing forward to close upon her when I showed myself, with Chris
growling ominously at my side.
The surprise caused by my unexpected appearance gave me a moment’s
advantage.
“Have no fear. The dog will guard you,” I called to her as I
passed. “Guard, Chris, guard, good dog,” I told him; and instantly
understanding me, he ran to her side.
“Thank God,” I heard her murmur as I sprang toward the men, with my
revolver levelled at them.
“You may give it up,” I cried; but that was not their view. One of them
swung his gun round on the instant, and was in the act of levelling it
at me when I fired, aiming low, and shot him in the leg, bringing him
to the ground.
His companion hesitated at this, then clubbed his gun and appeared to
be about to attack me, when he suddenly changed his mind and made a
dart for the horses. I dashed after him, and as he vaulted into the
saddle I fired at his horse and wounded it. Uttering a cry of rage, he
leapt with extraordinary agility to the unwounded horse, and might then
have got off had not the reins of both animals become entangled. Before
he could disengage them I had closed up to him.
I called to him to surrender, but he had plenty of fight in him, and,
taking me no doubt for the peasant I looked, he first struck at me
furiously with his gun, and then tried to ride me down.
I checked that effort with a bullet in his horse’s head, however, and
threatened to put one into the man himself if he did not submit. But
still he would not.
Leaping free of the falling horse he surprised me by running back
down the hill helter-skelter towards the girl, who stood watching us
with breathless interest. I thought he meant to attack her, and, wild
with sudden anger, I rushed after him. He had apparently remembered,
however, that his comrade’s gun was loaded and his object was to secure
it.
But Chris stopped this. The weapon lay near the girl and Chris sprang
forward and snarled so savagely looking so formidable and dangerous,
that the man hesitated, and before his hesitation was over I caught
up and closed with him. Over and over we rolled in the dusty road in
a fierce, hand-to-hand tussle, writhing, kicking, and sprawling as we
gripped each other in that desperate wrestle. But I had the advantage
of method. I was Cumberland bred, and in my boyhood had learnt some
tricks and falls which had stood me in good stead before now in many a
“scrap” in my rough-and-tumble mining days in Colorado and Montana.
I got my grip of him presently, and bit by bit moved my hands up till
my fingers were playing on his windpipe, and he was seeing stars as I
dashed his thick head again and again on the hard road, until all the
fight and all his senses too were knocked out of him.
Then I rose, and taking the reins from the girl’s horse, I tied him up
securely with them.
All this time I had not spoken to her, except that first sentence; but
I had caught her great grey eyes fixed upon me questioningly as she
followed every action. Before going to her I had a look at the man
I had shot, and found his leg was broken between the knee and the
ankle. I had some rough knowledge of surgery--one picks up such things
knocking about the world as I had--so I probed about with my knife and
found the bullet, which was in the muscular calf, cleansed the wound as
best I could, and set the bone. Then I placed him in as comfortable a
position as I could, and told him not to move until I could do more.
This done, I rose and went to the girl. She was now leaning against a
boulder by the wayside, deathly pale, and to my infinite concern I saw
that her dress was all blood-stained. One of the coward’s bullets must
have hit her, I thought.
“Are you hit?” I asked. I spoke in Serb, as I was more familiar with
that than any other of the Balkan languages.
“No. It is the blood from this poor beast.”
“Thank God for that. You’re very pale, but you won’t have any more
trouble from the men. I’ll see to that.”
Instead of replying she appeared in some way to resent my tone of
reassurance, and looked at me steadily with this curious expression
of resentment mingled with gratitude and some fear. But she had made
friends with Chris, and the great fellow was pushing his head against
her as she stroked him.
“You were very brave,” I said after a pause, during which I could not
keep my eyes off her. She was indeed a beautiful girl, with a figure of
queenly grace, and I daresay some of the intense admiration I felt may
have shown in my glance. I had never seen so lovely a face.
“If that man is much hurt you had better see to him,” she said, with a
distinct note of command in her voice.
“His leg’s broken. I’m going to improvise a splint, and then get help.”
“Help?” Quick suspicion prompted the question. “Do you live about here?”
I shut down a smile. She took me for a peasant; and well she might,
I thought, as I glanced down at my clothes, dust-stained, torn, and
dishevelled.
“There is a cottage close here and a tent,” I answered, evading her
question and her glance. There was clearly a mystery about her to
be solved. It was as evident as that she herself was well-born, and
accustomed to give orders for which she expected prompt obedience. But
leaving all explanations over for the time, I set about making the
splint.
Returning to the men’s horses I took off the bridle and saddle of the
dead one, cut away the saddle flaps, and carried them and the reins to
the injured man. The flaps made good splints, and I bound them tightly
with the reins round his leg. He had borne all my crude surgery work
with such stoicism that I guessed he was a Turk, and spoke to him in
the little Turkish I knew, telling him I would get help and have him
removed directly. He grunted something about being all right, and soon
was smoking as placidly as though nothing had happened, and a broken
leg was one of the usual events of daily life.
I returned then to the girl, who was sitting on the ground with her
hands clasped over her face. I guessed she was as desperately puzzled
as I was what to do next.
She sprang up quickly as I approached, and again stared at me with much
the same expression of anxiety and doubt.
“You seem very clever and resourceful,” she said. “Can yet get me a
horse?”
“What for? To lose yourself in the darkness among the hills?”
“I can pay you--later, I mean. I have no money on me. Tell me how to
send it to you, and I will give you any price you name. And I will add
to it a generous reward for what you have done already.”
“Do you think you are strong enough to travel yet? You are still very
white, and trembling like a leaf. You are scarcely used to this sort of
thing, you see.”
“I can judge that for myself,” she answered, almost haughtily, making a
great effort to rally her shaken nerves.
“I don’t think you are. You don’t realise yet how much this thing has
shaken you.”
“I am not accustomed to be contradicted in this way.”
“You are very near contradicting yourself by fainting,” I answered. I
could see it plainly. “How long have you been without food?”
“I do not wish you to question me. Can you get me a horse, or must I
try to walk? I must have a horse.”
“There’s another reason. If you know anything of these hills you’ll
know what a storm means among them; and there’s one brewing now.
Listen.” As I spoke we heard the rumbling of distant thunder among the
hills.
“I cannot stay here, in any case,” she shot back quickly. Then, after
a pause, “Who are you? Your name, I mean?” This in her sharp imperious
manner.
“My name is Bergwyn.” I slurred the pronunciation intentionally. I had
strong reasons for not wishing anyone to know I had been on the hills
on my mission.
But the effect of the name upon her was remarkable; and her agitation
was too great to be concealed even by the effort she made. She appeared
completely unnerved; and while her eyes opened wide in unmistakable
fear, she shrank from me as though I were a pestilence incarnate.
“Bourgwan--the--the brigand? I have heard of you.” The words were just
a whisper, uttered with a catch of the breath all eloquent of terror.
“No, I’m not----” I began with a smile intended to reassure her; but
before I could finish the sentence her own unfortunate guess had
completed her undoing, and with a little gasping sob down she went in a
heap to the ground unconscious, to my utter consternation.
Disconcerting as her collapse was, it nevertheless had the result of
deciding me what to do. Another clap of thunder came at the moment;
and, without waiting to think any longer, I picked her up and set off
as quickly as I could along the ravine to the camp.
She had not recovered consciousness when I reached the cottage; and
as there was but one room in it, I laid her on the bed, bundled my few
things together, tossed them out of sight, and leaving the dog with
her, I went over to the tent.
I found my four men asleep there, and waking them with an impartial
kick or two, sent them down to bring up the prisoner and his wounded
companion.
Then I began to realise what a really awkward matter it was likely to
be to have a girl, and such a girl, quartered upon us. I was not by any
means sure of my own men, even. They had been chosen by the guide; but
even he had deemed them so worthless and unreliable that he had gone
off that morning in search of others. Without him my position was very
grave. He was already a couple of hours overdue; and with this storm
coming up it was long odds that he would not arrive until the next
morning at the earliest.
Still the thing had to be faced. I must take my chance in the tent with
the men that night, and trust to my own authority and vigilance and
wits.
I went back to the cottage, and was alarmed to find the girl still
unconscious; so I got some brandy, and supporting her head managed to
get a few drops between her lips. This soon had an effect, and after a
repetition of the remedy she opened her eyes with a deep, long-drawn
sigh, and gave a great start as she found me bending over her and
herself on the bed in the hut.
“It’s all right,” I said, soothingly. “You fainted, probably from
exhaustion and the fright you had, and I brought you here. It was the
only thing I could do. You are perfectly safe, and the best thing you
can do is to be quiet until you can eat something. As soon as you’re
well enough I’ll find you a horse and send you wherever you want to go.”
She listened very quietly, and smiled. A rare thing, that smile of hers.
“I want you to feel you can trust me. I am not that brigand, Bourgwan,
or any other brigand, as it happens; although my name is sufficiently
like his to cause you to make the mistake you did about it. It’s all
very rough here; but it’s the best we can do for you. Now, do you think
you can feel safe enough to eat and drink something without believing
we mean to poison you?”
“Don’t.” It was only a whisper, but it was good hearing.
“I’ve had to give you a little brandy. Here’s some more, if you’ll like
it; and I can get you some preserved milk and biscuits presently. Shall
I leave you alone here?”
The light had gone as the storm gathered; and just as I spoke the storm
burst right overhead with a flare of lightning that filled the small
room with lurid light, followed by a deafening clap of thunder which
seemed almost to shake the earth until the hut trembled.
But she showed no fear of the storm; so that I gathered she was used to
the violence with which they raged in that district. She sat staring
out of the one narrow window wistfully and disconsolately.
“I cannot go?” she said, making it almost a question.
I threw the door wider open, and pointed to the rain that was coming
down in sheets--just like a tropical downpour.
“Quite impossible--you can see.”
She rose and looked out, shuddered, and then went back to the bed with
a sigh of disappointment. Some moments passed then. The storm raged
furiously: the lightning flaring and flashing with intense brilliance,
filling the sordid little dingy room almost continuously with its vivid
blue light; the thunder pealing and crashing and roaring as though the
very heavens would split; and the rain sweeping and swirling down like
a flood.
And within there was silence between us: she sitting dead still on the
low pallet, the dog haunched by her side; and I standing, very ill at
ease, near the door, not knowing what to say or do next, and feeling
very much of an awkward fool. I wanted to know that she trusted me, and
would have given anything for a word from her to show she did; while at
the same time I felt I would have bitten my tongue out rather than have
asked for such a word.
Yet out it came, nevertheless.
“You feel better and--and safe?” I asked.
The lightning showed me that she moved slightly, turned her head and
glanced toward me just for an instant, but said nothing.
“I’ll get you something to eat,” I murmured fatuously, and went out and
pelted through the rain to the tent.
I had got some biscuits and a tin of milk, when a thought occurred to
me. The men had not returned, and their guns piled in a corner of
the tent caught my eye as I was leaving. I made a bundle of them and
carried them away. I could trust my men just as well if they had no
firearms.
When I got back to the hut she was sitting on the side of the bed and
had quite shaken off the faintness.
“You need not have gone through the rain--but I suppose you are used to
it?” she said.
“A man in my position has to get used to anything. Here are the
biscuits and the milk. I’ve some tinned meat in the cupboard here. Can
you eat?”
“What are those?” she cried, pointing to the guns.
“The men’s guns. Best to keep them in the dry, you see.” I spoke as
indifferently as I could; but she was very quick, and by the light of
the storm I saw her eyes upon my face, with a sharp, piercing look.
“That’s not your reason. I hear it in your voice. Is there anything
more to fear?”
“No.” It was a lie, of course, but I uttered it stoutly, feeling the
need of it. “If you’ll eat some of this and get some strength back,
I’ll explain the position presently.”
“What’s that?” she asked, starting and listening.
In an interval of the storm I heard the voices of the men raised in
high tones.
“Nothing, only the men with the prisoner,” I replied calmly; but I
didn’t understand the reason for the high voices, and didn’t like it.
“I’ll just go and see them.”
“Don’t go, please.” Half command, in the same imperious tone I was
getting to know well; but unmistakably also half entreaty. It was the
note I had been waiting for so eagerly, and I felt myself go hot with
pleasure. She did trust me.
“As you wish,” I answered. “But I had better go.”
There was a pause, and then she said, in a quiet level tone:
“You must do as you think best, of course.”
“Chris here will answer for your safety. Try and eat something,” I
said; and with that I ran back again to the tent.
In a moment I saw something was wrong. My four men were clustered near
the fellow whose leg I had broken, quarrelling angrily, with many
gestures; while the man I had made prisoner was not in the tent at all.
“Where’s the other man?” I asked.
They all turned at the sound of my voice, and one of them, with whom I
had before had some bother, took the question to himself. He shrugged
his broad shoulders, first scowled, and then laughed insolently.
“He’s escaped,” he said, his tone a mixture of doggedness and defiance.
The trouble I had been looking for had come, just when it was most
unwelcome.