WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT.
We did not slacken speed until we had put some miles between us and
the camp; and although at first I suffered abominable torture from the
jolting, I had to keep on, and after a time I found that the rush of
the cool air, acting as a kind of stimulating tonic revived me. My head
became gradually less painful and my brain cleared.
If we had only been certain of our road I should have had no serious
misgivings as to the result. We were all well mounted, and although
the horses were not fresh, yet they were quite fit to carry us the
distance we had to travel to reach the railway. But I could only guess
the road, picking the way by the compass; and in that difficult and
barren district there was a constant risk that we should lose the way,
especially as we should have to ride through the night.
It was almost evening when we left the camp, and my intention was to
ride as far and as fast as possible while the daylight lasted and then
rest until the moon rose. We should then have six or seven hours to
ride before even the earliest peasants would be astir, and in that time
I calculated we should be able to reach the frontier town of Samac, the
terminus of the line.
The overpowering reason for travelling at night was the fear that some
attempt would be made at pursuit. If Petrov and Gartski succeeded in
bringing any considerable party back to the camp from Lalwor, they
would learn from the men there of the reward to be paid for getting
Mademoiselle to Maglai; and for any such sum as three thousand gulden
the average Bosnian peasant would leave all he had in the world
and go scrambling for a share of it. And with greed to back up the
superstitious abhorrence of witchcraft, there was no telling what would
be done.
We were a party easily tracked, too. Two wounded men, a woman, and a
huge hound like Chris would be readily remembered if once seen anywhere
at any time; and the night was thus the safest for us.
I kept all these thoughts to myself, however, and pushed on as fast as
practicable, although both Mademoiselle and Karasch urged me more than
once to halt and rest.
“We must get on while the light lasts,” was my answer. “We shall be
compelled to rest when the dark falls;” and the only time we slackened
speed was when the nature of the road compelled us.
“I wish you would rest, Burgwan, if only for an hour,” said
Mademoiselle as we were walking the horses up a hill.
“Not while the light lasts,” I replied. “The fretting impatience to get
on would do me more harm than the rest would good. I am in little or no
pain now. Tell me what happened after I was knocked over.”
“Karasch and Chris saved me. He says the man in the tent with you
shouted some signal at which the two who were with him broke open the
hut door. Chris flew at them, pinned one man by the throat, and the
other who was close behind fell in the confusion.”
“Good Chris,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, indeed, good dog. Well, Karasch was on the watch and as the man
was getting up and drawing his knife to attack Chris, Karasch rushed up
and knocked him senseless with a gun.”
“Well played, Karasch. And then?”
“That was all, except that I had great difficulty in making Chris loose
his hold. His fury was really awful to see. But he obeyed me, and
Karasch and I together bound the men and made them prisoners; but both
were badly hurt--especially the one Chris mauled.”
“But the third man?” I asked, perplexed.
“We found him shot in the tent, near you.”
I remembered then my shot at random just as I was struck.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but badly wounded; and we got him and the man you took last night
to the hut.”
“Well, it serves them all right; and the folk from Lalwor will look
after them. They meant killing me. But it may make things uglier for
us, and is all the stronger reason for us to hurry on while the light
lasts;” and we pressed forward again.
Just when the gloom was deepening fast, my policy of haste was
justified.
I had halted at a point where the road forked and, in considerable
doubt which way to ride, was anxiously consulting my map when Chris put
his nose to the ground and whimpered.
“Steady, Chris, good dog, steady,” I whispered; and he knew he was
to make no noise. “Someone is about,” I said to Mademoiselle. We sat
silent and listened, and presently heard the throbbing of hoofs from
the direction we had been riding.
“Two horses,” said Karasch, whose hearing was very acute.
“It may be nothing. Ride into the shadow of those trees and let Karasch
and Chris go with you,” I said to Mademoiselle.
“But you....” she began to object.
“Please do as I say and at once,” I interposed; and I put my horse on
to the grass under another tree.
She did as I asked without further protest and I waited for the
newcomers. They caught sight of me while still at some distance and
checked their horses first to a trot, and then to a walk.
“You are well come; I have lost my way,” I said as they reached me.
“Who are you?” asked one; and as the question was put the other man
laughed, and backed his horse to a safe distance as he said:
“It is Burgwan. We are all right;” and I recognised the voice.
“That is Petrov?”
“Yes. You are wanted at the camp, Burgwan, to explain things there.
Where is the witch? May the curse of God blight her!”
“If you are the man, Burgwan, you must come back with us,” put in the
other man, who spoke with an air of authority.
“Must?”
“Yes, must. There are some badly injured men there; and the injured
make strange charges against you which must be explained.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Captain Hanske, from Lalwor--the head officer of the district
under the Imperial Government. You left the place with an escaped
prisoner? She must return with you.”
A most disquieting turn, this Of all developments possible, the least
to my liking was a conflict with the Austrian authorities.
“I am prepared to meet any charges,” I answered firmly. “An attempt was
made upon my life there, and all I did was done in self-defence. But I
cannot return with you.”
“You have no option. You must do as I say and at once.” He spoke in
curt stern tone of a man accustomed to be obeyed. I knew well enough
the fear in which the Austrian officials are held by the Bosnians.
“We will see,” I answered, in quite as stiff a tone. “I have first a
reckoning to settle with Petrov there;” and I wheeled my horse round
and rode toward him. But he did not wait for me to get near him. He was
off like the wind; as indeed I had hoped.
“I’ll carry the news back to the rest at the camp,” he called over
his shoulder, and he galloped back along the road as though the devil
himself were at his heels. I listened to the dying sounds of his
horse’s hoofs with intense satisfaction, and went back with a laugh to
the official.
“Your character as a desperado is well established,” he exclaimed drily
and angrily.
“Now we can talk on equal terms,” said I, quietly.
“I order you in the name of the Emperor to come with me.”
“And I tell you, man to man, I shall do nothing of the kind. I am no
desperado, as I shall be easily able to prove when necessary; but I
have no time for anything of the sort now.”
“Then I shall accompany you.”
“No, that also is impossible.”
“What were you doing in the camp yonder?”
“My own business, merely.”
“Where are you going?”
“Also about my own business.”
“Where are your papers?”
“I have none to show you.”
“Then I shall accompany you.”
“No. That I shall not allow.”
“Do you dare to threaten me?”
“There are three roads here. One back to the camp; one to the left
there, and one to the right. You are free to choose which you please
and I will take another.”
“I shall not leave you.” He was getting very angry and dogged.
“If you are armed you may perhaps force yourself upon me.”
“I shall do as I say,” he answered, with just enough hesitation to
assure me he was not armed. Then it occurred to me that it would be
safer to get him away from the place and to increase the distance
between him and the camp. It would be the more difficult for Petrov and
the rest to find him when they returned.
“Mademoiselle,” I called. She and Karasch came out. “We are to have a
companion. This gentleman desires to ride with us. This is our road;”
and choosing that which led away to the right, I rode on with her,
leaving the official to follow.
She had overheard the conversation and questioned me with some anxiety
as to what I meant to do. She went so far even as to suggest a return
to the camp.
“I have my plans. It will all come right. I should have left him at the
fork of the road there had I not thought it best to get him further
away.”
“But I could probably satisfy him,” she said.
“I’ll deal with him in my own way, please,” was my reply.
We plunged along at such pace as we could make now that the darkness
had deepened; but when we could go no faster than a walk, and were, I
reckoned, some two miles from the cross roads, I called a halt.
“We are going to rest here, captain,” I said to him, as we dismounted.
We three sat by the side of the road and while we made a hasty meal
I explained my plan to Karasch, who was frankly frightened by the
presence of the official.
“The moon will be up in a couple of hours, Karasch, and you must keep
watch. I must sleep or I shall not be fit to ride later. We are going
to leave that man here. If he dismounts, find the means to turn his
horse astray; if he does not, you must disable the horse. But don’t
shoot it except in the last resource; for we don’t know who might hear
the shot. The man we shall just tie up to a tree.”
“It is dangerous, Burgwan. He is an officer of the Imperial
Government,” said Karasch.
“If he were the Emperor of Austria himself, I should do it in the
plight we are in.”
I lay down. The excitement had kept me going; but I was done now;
utterly exhausted and worn out; and despite the hazard of our position,
I was soon fast asleep. I was wakened by a loud, angry cry from the
Austrian. I could scarcely lift my head for the throbbing in it; I
ached in every joint and muscle; and my leg was woefully stiff and
painful from that knife thrust; but I scrambled to my feet in alarm and
confusion at the noise.
I must have slept for some three hours; for the moon was up and shining
fitfully between the masses of ragged threatening clouds which were
scudding across the face of the heavens. By the light I saw the man
struggling with Karasch and shouting with a vigour that woke very
dangerous echoes in the still night. Mademoiselle was holding Chris,
who was growling ominously, and she was attempting to still him.
I went over to them and found that Karasch had strapped the man’s legs
tight together and was holding on to the strap with his one arm while
the Austrian was fighting and wrestling to get free.
“Down, Chris. You may loose him, Mademoiselle,” I said; and the good
dog came instantly to heel. “Stand from him, Karasch,” I called next.
“Now, sir, you must stop those cries; or I shall put the dog on you.”
“This is an outrage, an infernal outrage, and you shall all suffer for
it,” he cried, furiously.
“It’s done by my orders. The outrage is that you should endeavour to
force yourself upon us.”
“I am doing my duty. I am a Government----”
“I choose not to believe you; that’s all there is to it; and I take you
to be a dirty spy set upon me by that other coward, Petrov, who was
with you. I am going to tie your arms to your sides and leave you here.
We are both suffering from the injuries inflicted by your accomplices;
and if you resist, you must settle matters with my dog here--and he
makes a rough fighter at the best of times.”
“You infernal villain....” he spluttered.
“Chris.” The great dog came close up to him and a fearsome brute he
looked in the moonlight as he eyed the captain and showed his fangs
with an angry snarl. “Now, Karasch.”
He ceased to struggle then and let Karasch fasten him up securely; and
after that we gagged him, and finding a suitable place some distance
from the road we left him.
“Where’s his horse?”
“I started him over the hills. Mademoiselle helped me. I couldn’t have
done it without her. She got him from his horse talking with him, and I
got rid of the horse. It’ll probably go home.”
“It may go to the devil for aught I care. But we must be off without
losing another moment.”
I felt the necessity now. We had burnt our boats with a vengeance
in this treatment of the Austrian captain; and if we were caught on
Austrian territory there might be a big bill to pay before we could
settle matters. It was not now Mademoiselle’s safety only that depended
upon our reaching Samac, but our own also, and we pushed on as fast as
possible.
“Karasch told me how cleverly you got that man separated from his
horse, Mademoiselle,” I said when we were walking the horses up a steep
hill.
“He did not hear what I said to him?” she asked, quickly.
“He said nothing to me if he did.”
“He deserves what he has got; but it is a dangerous thing in Bosnia to
interfere with an Austrian official.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I made the only offer I could. I told him I was the cause of all the
trouble, was alone responsible, and offered to explain everything.”
“Ah, I see. You mean you offered to go back with him, if he would let
you go alone. It was like you.”
She started and glanced quickly at me. “I did not say that.”
“No. But I know you, and where you are concerned can make a guess.”
“You would have been free, Burgwan; and I could have cleared matters.”
“He was a fool, or he would have guessed and accepted the offer.”
“What do you mean? Guessed what?”
“That the moment I woke I should have ridden back to the camp.”
“Burgwan!”
“Do you think I should have left you in the lurch? It’s not the way we
treat women in England, or in America.”
“But you don’t understand. I should have been in no danger. Once under
Austrian protection I could have explained.”
“Explained what?”
“Who I am. You have never asked me.”
“I do not care. When you wish me to know, you will tell me; and when I
wish to know, I will ask. I can wait. I know what you are--to me.”
Either she did not catch the last words, for I had dropped my voice, or
she affected not to hear. She said nothing and when we reached the top
of the hill we rattled on again quickly.
When we drew rein at the next hill we walked half way to the top in
silence and then she broke it abruptly:
“I will tell you if you wish, Burgwan.”
“I do not. To me you are Mademoiselle: to you I am Burgwan; and
Mademoiselle and Burgwan we can best remain, until we are out of this
bother.”
“How far do you think we are from Samac?”
“We ought not to be more than a dozen miles at most--but that’s not
much more than a guess.”
“When we reach there, we shall part.”
“You will be glad to be on the safe road to Belgrade.”
“Is that another guess, Burgwan?”
“Yes, it’s another guess, Mademoiselle.”
“Do you think it’s a good one?”
“Yes. You would be an extraordinary woman if it were not. I wish with
all my heart we were safely there.”
“Then I wish it, too,” she answered, with a gesture. A long pause
followed until she said, “Yes, I do wish it. I had forgotten how ill
you are and how sorely you need rest.”
“I suppose it sounded as though I was thinking of myself.”
“Not to me; you never seem to think of yourself--at least during our
comradeship.”
“I like that word--comradeship. Thank you for it.”
“It has been a strange one, Burgwan. How good you have been. And I took
you at first for a--a peasant, and even once for a brigand.”
“There are worse folk in the world than peasants--or brigands either
for that matter.”
“What trouble I have brought to you.”
“We shall have the more to laugh over when we meet again.”
“We shall not meet again, Burgwan,” she said, so seriously and
deliberately that I thought I could detect a touch of sadness. Perhaps
I only hoped it, and the hope cheated me. I answered lightly,
“One never knows. The world’s a small place now. You might come to
America some day.”
“No, no. That is impossible,” she interjected quickly.
“Then I might go to Belgrade.”
“No, no,” she exclaimed again in the same quick tone. “That too must be
impossible.”
“Impossible is a word we are going to wipe out of the American
dictionary,” I replied, with a smile. “We shall see; but as we are at
the top of the hill we’ll hurry on to Samac--the first stage, whether
for America or Belgrade.”
She turned as if to say something, her face very grave and earnest, but
after a moment’s hesitation shook up her reins and we cantered on.
But a good deal was to happen before we reached Samac; the first stage,
as I had so glibly named it. We had some few miles of easy going
when the path became very difficult and branched suddenly in three
directions. I picked out that which, judging by the compass, promised
to lead us straight to Samac. But instead of that, when we had followed
it for an hour or more we found it cut by a broad, swift-flowing river.
The path led right down to the water’s edge and rose from it on the
other side; but the river was in flood from the recent heavy rains,
and the ford was impassable. Karasch and I both tried to cross, on
horseback first and then on foot, but failed; and then we rode along
the bank searching for a fordable spot.
But this only led us into worse disaster. We came to a spot where
another stream, itself as fierce and swift and broad, joined the first.
We were cut off hopelessly.
We had lost precious hours in this way. It was long past the dawn; and
to make matters even worse I could find no trace of the streams on the
map anywhere near Samac.
It was an awkward plight in all truth. To go on was impossible; to stay
where we were for the waters to subside was useless; and yet to go back
was only to put ourselves once more on the road where we might look for
danger from those we knew to be in pursuit of us. The hours we had thus
wasted had thrown away all the advantage gained by the night’s riding.
Yet there was nothing else for it; and with a bitter sigh and something
stronger at the bad luck, I gave the word, and we started to return.