TAKEN BY SURPRISE.
At the Thracian capital preparations were now being made a second
time for the King’s coronation. The outer walls of the chapel of St
Peter had risen from their ashes in the courtyard of the palace, and
the decoration of the interior was almost complete; while the crown
and other regalia had been subjected to a process of renovation, and
were ready for service, though somewhat shorn of their original
splendour. Many circumstances seemed to combine to enable the ceremony
to take place under the happiest auspices. Cyril had been duly
presented to the Legislative Assembly as Caerleon’s heir after the
visit to Tatarjé, and the announcement was received with acclamation.
An income was voted him from the public funds, and the title of
Prince, already conferred informally by the people, granted him by a
royal proclamation. Even M. Drakovics was content that the succession
to the throne should thus be secured, for recent events had convinced
him effectually that the King’s marrying was out of the question. The
first steps had been taken towards putting into operation the new
liquor laws; and, although there had been a good deal of discontent in
the capital, in the country the people had grumbled and submitted.
Most important of all, the Roumi Government had at length given way
before the representations of Pannonia and her allies, and had agreed
to recognise Caerleon’s election as king, safeguarding the suzerain
rights of the Grand Signior by the stipulation that he should nominate
a special commissioner to attend the coronation and invest the new
ruler with a portion of his insignia.
“We are getting on swimmingly,” said Cyril, dropping into the
Premier’s office late in the afternoon, three or four days before the
date fixed for the ceremony. “One almost wishes that things wouldn’t
all go quite so smoothly. It makes one think of chucking one’s watch
into the river, or making some other sacrifice of that sort to avert
misfortune, like the ancients, you know. I believe my brain would give
way under the pressure if it went on much longer. When Caerleon is
safely crowned and off my hands I shall breathe freely.”
“I have reason to believe,” said M. Drakovics, “that the pro-Scythian
party are planning to strike some blow during the coronation
proceedings. All the indications seem to point to that, although we
have been unable to discover what course they intend to take. They
would scarcely try to burn the chapel a second time, but they might
use dynamite, or attempt to get up a military _coup d’état_.”
“And we must provide against those possibilities by rigorously
excluding strangers from the ceremony, and associating the Carlino
regiment with the city troops as guards,” said Cyril. “Well, we have
three days left for making preparations. I’m glad I just looked in. I
thought you would probably have something to say to me.”
“What is the King doing this afternoon?” asked M. Drakovics.
“Holding his review for the benefit of Prince Otto Georg, of course,
with General Sertchaieff in attendance. When one has a foreign Prince
to entertain, and a little army doing nothing, one may as well trot
out one to amuse the other. By the bye, I believe that I have a
crumpled rose-leaf in the fact that we can’t get away from the
Schwarzwald-Molzaus. One meets them all over Europe, and the meeting
is neither unexpected nor a pleasure.”
It may be noted, as sadly characteristic of the littleness of human
nature, that neither Caerleon nor Cyril could find a good word to say
of the Princess of Dardania. One had been deceived by her, the other
had helped her to deceive him, but they made common cause against her.
“You would not think, looking at Prince Otto Georg now, that at the
time of the Franco-Prussian war his name was in every one’s mouth,
would you?” said M. Drakovics. “He was a dashing young cavalry
officer--very young--and I remember distinctly the incident which
brought him into special notice. Our friend General Sertchaieff was, I
believe, at the German headquarters at the time, and it was he who,
when we were first compelled to seek a king, suggested, from his
recollection of the matter, that the crown should be offered to Prince
Otto Georg. The Prince was carrying despatches--for Moltke, I
think--and was taken prisoner by a small body of French cavalry. He
managed to destroy the despatches, but he had been made acquainted
with the contents, and this his captors guessed. They were too far
from their headquarters to take him there that night, and therefore
they halted in a stable, put their prisoner in the empty loft and took
away the ladder, and sat down round a fire underneath. They must have
got hold of some wine--at any rate, they went to sleep one by one, and
the fire burned low. Prince Otto Georg watched his opportunity, and
let himself drop from the entrance to the loft. He fell among the
embers of the fire, and burnt his hands badly, but he crept past the
Frenchmen to the spot where their horses were tied, unfastened them
all, and led them across the grass until they were out of hearing.
Then he mounted one, driving the rest before him for a short distance,
after which he turned them loose and rode for his life, reaching his
destination safely and delivering his message.”
“You are quite right in saying that no one would imagine it who looked
at him now,” said Cyril, as M. Drakovics rose to escort him to the
door. “By the bye, you have rather a good view of the river from this
window. What steamer is that flying Pannonian colours?”
“A Scythian trader, I fancy,” returned the Premier. “A good many of
them hoist the Pannonian flag while they are here. It prevents
unpleasantness, and we don’t ask too many questions, knowing that we
can gain nothing but benefit from their coming, even though it is
under the rose. A thriving trade with Scythia would in itself be
almost a guarantee of peace. This particular ship has just unloaded
her cargo, and leaves to-morrow.”
“Brought wheat, I suppose?”
“No; machinery for use in the arsenal. Sertchaieff has had two clerks
on the wharf for three days checking all the cases as they were
unloaded. When everything is in working order we shall be far more
independent of other nations than any of our neighbours. This is
another piece of good news for your Highness to convey to his
Majesty.”
“Yes, I think that on the whole Caerleon has about as pleasant a berth
as he could wish,” responded Cyril as he went out.
It is generally recognised that our good fortune is always much more
clearly visible to others than to ourselves, and the fact that
Caerleon himself was totally unconvinced of the advantages of his
position need not, therefore, excite any astonishment. If Cyril had
thought fit to broach in his brother’s presence his theory of the
expedience of making some sacrifice to fortune in order to avert the
perils arising from unbroken prosperity, Caerleon would have reminded
him bitterly that his separation from Nadia was quite effectual in
preventing him, at any rate, from growing intoxicated with success.
His face was gloomy enough at the present moment as he rode up to the
palace with his royal guest after the review, General Sertchaieff and
a group of officers following them at some little distance. It was a
wretched wintry afternoon, and only a German prince would have
appreciated the compliment paid him in holding a review in his honour
on such a day; but the courteous gentleman who rode beside the
taciturn King was overflowing with contentment and good humour. Prince
Otto Georg of Schwarzwald-Molzau was a gay young man of forty-five or
so, a younger son of the reigning Grand-Duke, and said by his
detractors to live on the reputation he had gained in the
Franco-Prussian war, and on anticipations of a _guerre de revanche_.
This was unkind, although it is undeniable that of late years he had
been much better known in Paris or at Monte Carlo than on the
parade-ground or the manœuvre-field; but there was a certain amount
of truth in the accusation, for he was one of the men who are content
to vegetate indefinitely unless aroused by some great stimulus. He had
come to Bellaviste to represent his father at the coronation of
Caerleon, ostensibly as a kind of _amende honorable_ for Princess
Ottilie’s heartless conduct; but as he was the brother of the Empress
of Pannonia, it was generally believed that political considerations
were not wholly unconnected with his visit. It was not, however, of
politics that he was speaking as he rode up the street at the side of
his host.
“You have the material for a fine army here,” he said; “but you want
drill, drill, organisation, organisation. Your men are too much
inclined to be independent, to act individually or in small bodies,
without waiting for orders. Here we are in Europe--we do not, as in
semi-savage warfare, need scouts, men of initiative. The ideal
European army is absolutely a machine, without any thought or volition
of its own, merely what is communicated to it by its head. If the
different items forming that army once begin to try and think for
themselves, whether in seeking cover or in making an advance, all is
lost. Their only concern is to obey orders, and their commander’s
business is to obtain the victory. It is even more humane for the
leader to be untrammelled, when he is once in action, by
considerations as to the lives of his men, and so on, for he has
planned his movements with the view of attaining a certain end with
the minimum of loss, and they must be carried out exactly if he is to
win. The better an army, the more completely is its will merged in
that of its leader--that is to say, the more thoroughly is it drilled
into a machine. Your men are more like Cossacks, or irregular levies,
at any rate, than thoroughly trained soldiers. It is easy to see that
your army has been drilled by Scythians, not by Germans.”
“You will hurt General Sertchaieff’s feelings severely if you tell him
that,” said Caerleon, glancing back at the War Minister. “I believe we
flatter ourselves that we are in a very high state of military
efficiency.”
Prince Otto Georg laughed silently. “Your _corps d’élite_ amuses me,”
he said; “your city guard, I mean, and that portion of it especially
which you call the palace guard. The uniforms of these gentlemen are
so magnificent, and their drill is so lamentable--to a German eye, at
least. They are beautiful to behold, but a much smaller number of good
soldiers, or even of your Carlinos, would scatter them with the
greatest ease. By the bye, is it true that you discovered a Scythian
plot among the palace guard which led to the degradation of an
officer?”
“Not exactly,” said Caerleon, “although we seem to have been
victimised very ingeniously by the officer you mean. He presented
himself here as having thrown up a post in the Scythian army for the
purpose of joining us, and we gave him a commission. About a month ago
we were warned of a plot, which contemplated murdering me, among other
laudable objects, and to our surprise, for we had not heard anything
to connect him with it, this man disappeared promptly. We have never
succeeded in catching him, and all we could do was to outlaw him and
strike his name off the roll with ignominy.”
“You leave too much power and responsibility in the hands of these
guards of yours,” said Prince Otto Georg, abruptly. “They will grow to
think themselves supreme in the State.”
“We are doing our best to reduce their privileges gradually,” replied
Caerleon. “They have behaved extremely well so far, on the whole, and
we have no excuse for heroic measures.”
“Nevertheless, you would find such a measure your best policy, if I
may venture to advise you,” said the Prince. “I could almost envy you
the task of bringing your army into shape. It might turn out little
less exciting than actual war.”
“Perhaps you would like the privilege of doing it?” suggested
Caerleon. “But I forgot, you have declined it already. If you have no
objection to telling me, I should very much like to hear why you
refused the Thracian crown when it was offered you?”
“To tell the truth,” replied the Prince, confidentially, “it was
because I thought that I should find Thracia dull. Drakovics imagined
that I was afraid to accept the offer, and I was afraid--that I should
be bored. You see, it was not likely that my election would excite the
opposition yours has done, for I had the Schwarzwald-Molzau influence
behind me from the first. But under present circumstances, I must own,
the position looks more hopeful. You have the army to reform, and also
Drakovics to conquer. I see you are beginning to teach him that the
State is not Drakovics, but he has not fully learnt the lesson even
yet. Yes, I think that, on the whole, the situation is distinctly
interesting.”
“I am glad that it strikes you in that light,” said Caerleon. “I
suppose I am not up to the work.”
“What! you are not thinking of abdicating?” asked the Prince, in
dismay.
“Abdicating? No! Now that I’m here I’ll stick to the place. The
kingdom has cost me enough already, but I’ll stay on until I’m driven
out, and try the temperance experiment properly, in spite of
obstructionists and rioters.”
“You take things too seriously, my dear fellow,” said the older man
compassionately. “Look at me. I live quietly, I am not devoted to
philanthropy, or any other form of excitement. I recognise that these
are days for management, not for despotism. If a wave of excitement of
any kind should arise, it might carry me with it, though not by my own
choice. Similarly, I might find it necessary, were I in your position,
to issue a decree, and enforce its fulfilment, but I should much
prefer to flatter the people into originating it themselves. But you
young men must always plunge into things so madly. You will have
prompt obedience, unreasoning submission instantly. You have not
learned to take things easily.”
“I am afraid I have an invincible prejudice in favour of wearing out
rather than rusting out,” said Caerleon; “and I think,” he added, with
a quiet smile, “that your own early history would be on my side,
Prince, if I called it as a witness against you.”
Prince Otto Georg smiled, much gratified by the compliment, and the
atmosphere at the palace that evening was extremely agreeable. A State
banquet had been held the night before in honour of the guest, but
to-day, at Prince Otto’s special request, General Sertchaieff had been
invited to join the royal party informally, since he wished to have
some conversation with him on the subject of the Franco-Prussian war.
The War Minister was highly flattered by this mark of favour, and he
exchanged reminiscences at great length with the Prince, which he was
well qualified to do, having gone through the war attached, as a great
favour, to the staff of one of the German princes. After such an
opening, it was not remarkable that the tone of the conversation
continued to be extremely warlike, and became even undesirably
technical in character, to the unmilitary auditor, when it turned on
modern weapons and projectiles. This was in the smoking-room after
dinner, and although Caerleon was quite content to allow the two
visitors to discuss velocities and electric-firing apparatus together,
Cyril objected to being left out in the cold, and after several
valiant attempts succeeded at last in bringing the talk round to the
comparatively simple theme of the use of the revolver in warfare. The
two experts rose to the bait, and displayed as much enthusiasm with
regard to the mechanism and weight of various types of revolvers as to
those of the machine-gun, and Cyril, who flattered himself that he
knew something about revolvers, was able to take part in the
conversation.
“I wish I could show you what I mean,” he said at last, after an
animated discussion of various knotty points, “but we can’t try
pistol-practice in this room, for fear of breaking something.” They
were not in the sacred “den” which Caerleon had established in an
out-of-the-way upper room, but in what might be called the State
smoking-room, which had been furnished in gorgeous Moorish style by
the late king. “Caerleon has a revolver of the kind I was describing,
and I believe it’s out and out the best.”
“Let us send for it, if the Prince would like to see it,” said
Caerleon.
“I’ll get it,” said Cyril, “if you’ll give me your keys. I’ll get mine
too. It’s a newer make, but I’m sure it’s not so good.”
He returned in a few minutes with both weapons, and explained their
action to the guests, General Sertchaieff showing special interest in
the subject, and examining the mechanism over and over again. Indeed,
it appeared almost that he had looked at it too long for his peace of
mind, for just before taking his leave, after arranging that the
Prince should visit the arsenal in a day or two with Caerleon, in
order to inspect the new machinery, which would then be unpacked, he
might have been observed to slip Cyril’s revolver into his own pocket,
and take it away with him. Cyril did not happen to remember to look
for it when he went to bed, and the loss was therefore not discovered.
Prince Otto Georg was duly escorted to the rooms he occupied in the
front of the palace, Caerleon and Cyril betook themselves to theirs in
the southern wing, and silence settled down upon the building.
Cyril had been asleep for some time when he was awakened by a low,
hurried tapping at his door. Sitting up in bed, he called to the
intruder to come in, wondering sleepily why the sentry in the passage
could not keep people from knocking him up in the middle of the night.
To his astonishment it was Wright who entered, closing the door
carefully behind him, and striking a match on his clothes as he
advanced.
“How dare you come here like this, Wright?” demanded Cyril, angrily.
“You must be drunk.” Wright took no notice of the accusation, but lit
a candle, and placed it in such a position that the mirror came
between it and the window.
“No, my lord,” arresting Cyril’s hand as he was about to turn on the
electric light, “don’t show no more light, if you vally your life.
I’ve been down at the stables, my lord, lookin’ to ’is Majesty’s
charger, as was ’urt to-day by the General’s ’orse knockin’ up agin
’im, and when I come back to the ’ouse, I see as things ain’t right.
Do your lordship know as there ain’t a single sentry anywheres about?
I come all the way up ’ere without meetin’ one, nor a servant neither,
right from the door I come in at.”
“Good gracious!” cried Cyril, “there must be something wrong. Can the
guards have deserted in a lump?”
“Well, my lord,” said Wright, “they may be all a-sleepin’ quiet in
their beds, or they mayn’t.”
“We must go down and rout them out,” said Cyril, getting out of bed.
“You go in by this door, Wright, and wake the King, while I get some
clothes on.”
Almost the first thought that now occurred to Cyril’s mind was the
recollection of his revolver, but when he looked for it in vain in its
accustomed place, he remembered that he must have left it down-stairs.
“I must go and hunt it up,” he said to himself, as he hurried into his
clothes. “Caerleon has got his, at any rate. I remember now that he
was carrying it.”
But while the words were in his mouth, Caerleon came in hastily in his
shirt-sleeves, with his revolver in his hand.
“Who has been tampering with this, Cyril?” he asked, sharply. “Some
one has given it a wrench, and the trigger won’t work.”
“There’s something fishy about all these mysterious occurrences,” said
Cyril. “Does it strike you that our guns are at the other end of the
house, and that we have no other weapons here?”
“If you ask me, my lords,” said Wright, impressively, “I think there’s
foul play.”
“Stuff!” said Caerleon. “Don’t croak until you’re told, Wright. If we
can’t find any weapons, we must get hold of something that will do
instead--not that I think there’s any danger, but it’s as well to be
on the safe side.”
“Of course,” said Cyril, “the guards _may_ have all struck work at
once, and be enjoying sweet repose in their quarters, but the
coincidence about the revolvers is suspicious.”
“I have it!” cried Caerleon. “There are our dress-swords, which will
be better than nothing. Put on a coat or something, Cyril, while I get
them out, and don’t stand there shivering.”
He went back to his room, and returned with his own sword, while
Wright unearthed Cyril’s; and armed with these elaborate if not
particularly dependable instruments of warfare, they prepared to start
on their voyage of discovery.
“Haven’t you got a weapon of any sort, Wright?” asked Caerleon of the
groom.
“Buckle, your Majesty,” returned Wright, unfastening the strap round
his waist. “’E ain’t bad at a pinch.”
Thus unsatisfactorily accoutred, they set out along the corridor. The
electric light was burning brightly, but, as Wright had said, there
was not a human being to be seen. It felt almost uncanny to be
marching noiselessly over the thick carpets, in the blaze of light,
without hearing a sound or uttering a word, and Cyril and Wright
caught themselves glancing apprehensively at the open doors of dark
rooms and at the heavy folds of _portières_. As for Caerleon, he was
far too much incensed against the guards on account of what he
conceived to be their dereliction of duty to have any thought of
supernatural terrors, or even of the more palpable danger of a
possible enemy lurking to intercept him. His intention was to go
straight to the guard-room and give the guards a thorough fright,
which would teach them not to confide too trustfully in their
sovereign’s drowsiness on another occasion. The head of the great
staircase was reached without encountering any further suspicious
circumstances; but Wright, looking out into the courtyard from a
window, pointed out to Cyril in a whisper that there were no lights
visible there. They began to descend the stairs, and as they did so,
there was a sound of footsteps in the hall beneath, and several men
appeared from the direction of the entrance. Both parties caught sight
of each other at the same moment, and halted suddenly, Caerleon,
Cyril, and Wright half-way between the head of the stair and the
landing in the middle, the others on the lowest step. They were
General Sertchaieff, Louis O’Malachy, and half-a-dozen stalwart
troopers of the palace guard. For a moment astonishment kept every one
silent, then Caerleon recovered himself.
“May I ask the meaning of this, General? What brings you to the palace
at this hour, in the company of a man who is a traitor and a spy?”
“Milord Caerleon,” returned the War Minister, “I am deputed by the
National Convention to inform you that Thracia has returned to her
true allegiance. The city is in the hands of the patriotic supporters
of the exiled King, and you might well expect that no mercy would be
shown you. Our gracious monarch, however, abhors bloodshed, even in
the case of an adventurer whose usurpation began in fraud, and has
been maintained by means of force and treachery, and it has been
decided, in accordance with his expressed wish, to spare your life on
condition of your abdicating and leaving the country instantly.”
“And you are the person to bring me this message?” said Caerleon. “I
hope I am to understand that you have been compelled to do so by
force?”
“Milord,” said General Sertchaieff, “your question touches my honour.
I am acting of my own free will as the agent of my rightful sovereign,
King Peter II.”
“X.!” cried Cyril. “What fools we have been!” But the veins on
Caerleon’s forehead were swelling, and there was a dangerous glitter
in his eye.
“Then you are a perjured traitor,” was his answer to General
Sertchaieff. “As for abdicating, I’ll do nothing of the sort, and I’ll
leave the country just as soon as you can get me out of it, and not
before.”
“Come on, you bloomin’ cowards!” yelled Wright, the joy of battle
carrying him away. “We ain’t afraid of yer! Eight men don’t dare fight
three. Yah!”
The long-drawn contempt infused into the last monosyllable appeared to
stimulate the courage of the attacking party, and they made a rush up
the steps and threw themselves upon the defenders, who were much
embarrassed by the extent of their position, for the staircase was a
very wide one. Cyril singled out General Sertchaieff as his opponent,
and if any one had found time to watch them, a very pretty display of
swordsmanship might have been seen. Louis O’Malachy had not mounted
the stairs with the rest of his party, but had disappeared, apparently
to summon further assistance, and the soldiers left their leader to
account for Cyril, and devoted their attention to Caerleon. He found
himself hard put to it to maintain his position against them, although
Wright, using as a buckler a chair which he had caught up on the
landing, rendered him yeoman service by dealing fierce and disabling
blows with his belt on the heads and wrists of the opposing swordsmen.
All too soon Caerleon’s untrustworthy blade broke off in his hand, and
he was left to repel his assailants with the remaining half, but their
shout of triumph distracted the attention of General Sertchaieff, who
glanced aside for a moment, and in that moment Cyril ran him through
the arm and obliged him to drop his sword. Wright whisked up the sword
immediately, and thrust it into Caerleon’s hand before any of the
enemy could prevent him, and the fight was now of a more equal
character, since General Sertchaieff was forced to retire disabled. He
retreated no further than the half-way landing, however, and taking
out his revolver, began to fire and load again as fast as he could
with his left hand.
“If he’s going to pot at us one by one, we’re done for!” gasped Cyril.
“If he shoots no better than this, we’re all right,” returned
Caerleon, breathlessly, and the fight went on in silence until a
sudden exclamation of rage from Cyril showed the King his brother’s
sword shivered at his feet. At the same moment a heavy blow from
behind threw him forward among the enemy, and a howl of fury from
Wright proclaimed that an attack in the rear had proved successful.
When Caerleon recovered his scattered senses, he found himself held
down by four men, while Cyril and Wright were in a like predicament.
Under cover of the noise made by General Sertchaieff’s pistol
practice, Louis O’Malachy had led a party round and captured the
position from behind.
“I think your lordship will now see that it is expedient to submit
without further resistance,” said General Sertchaieff smoothly, as he
tied a handkerchief round his wounded arm. Caerleon made no answer,
for he had caught Wright’s eye, and seen his free hand stealing
towards the ankle of one of the men who held him, and in another
instant two of the captors had gone down with a crash, and Caerleon
was on his feet and hitting out furiously, while Wright made herculean
but unavailing efforts to join him. But the struggle was hopeless from
the first, for Caerleon could not even get his back against the wall,
and he was dragged down by sheer weight of numbers, and bound firmly
with the tasselled cord torn from a curtain.
“I don’t think you will get that undone,” said Louis, bending over him
and testing the knots, then, with that tendency towards the theatrical
which besets a certain class of Irishmen in moments of excitement, he
kicked him heavily, adding, “That is for my sister.”
“Nasty coward!” growled Wright. “’It a man when ’e’s down that you
don’t dare touch when ’e’s up, and bring in a young lady’s name about
it, you precious blackguard, do!”
“Captain O’Malachy,” interrupted General Sertchaieff, as Louis
advanced threateningly towards his unconquerable assailant, “if you
will be so good as to take three men and secure the person of the
Prince of Schwarzwald-Molzau, I will wait here with the prisoners for
your return.”
Louis departed instantly, to return before long with a laugh.
“No fighting there. He accepts the situation with great philosophy,”
he said, and Caerleon felt oddly disappointed. Something had given him
the idea that he might reckon on Prince Otto Georg for support at this
crisis.
“Your presence is now required down-stairs, milord,” said General
Sertchaieff. “If you will give yourself the trouble of walking, it
will be as well; otherwise we must take you.”
Choosing the less of the two evils, Caerleon allowed himself to be
dragged to his feet and conducted down the stairs to his study by his
captors, wondering vaguely whether a scaffold and a block would meet
his eyes on entering. Nothing of the kind was visible, however,
although the room was crowded with people--officers of the palace and
city guards mostly, with a sprinkling of civilians, principally
officials connected with the Ministry of War, and a number of men of
foreign appearance, who were evidently exiles returned from Scythia.
On the writing-table lay a document, which General Sertchaieff
presented to Caerleon as a formal deed of abdication, and demanded his
signature.
“I thought you had done with that foolery,” said Caerleon. “I have
told you already that I won’t abdicate.”
“Milord,” said the War Minister, impressively, “we are anxious not to
shed blood, but we are not men to be trifled with; and if you refuse
to sign the paper, Captain O’Malachy has his orders.”
“Sign under compulsion,” whispered Cyril. “I can bear witness that you
were forced by threats to do it, and it can’t stand.”
“Shut up, Cyril!” said Caerleon, gruffly. “Have you unlimited time to
waste, General?”
“At least consider your brother and your servant, who must suffer with
you if you remain obstinate, instead of returning in safety to
England,” said General Sertchaieff.
“If ’is Majesty will say anything to get me my ’ands free for a
moment, fust thing I do, I’ll give you one in the eye,” said Wright,
ferociously.
“We are to understand, then, milord, that you refuse finally to sign
the deed?” asked the General.
“I do refuse,” said Caerleon, “and if there is one man here, of all
those who have taken oaths of allegiance to me and have eaten my
bread, who has one spark of honesty left in him, I hope he will let it
be known that I preferred death to abdication.”
“May I ask whether you are referring to me?” demanded Louis O’Malachy.
“I have not offered to carry any messages of yours to my unhappy
sister.”
“No, I don’t think you ever had a spark of honesty in you,” returned
Caerleon. “And as for your sister, to send a message to her through
you would be to insult her.”
“Captain O’Malachy, you will conduct the prisoners to the river-bank,
and follow the directions you have received,” said General
Sertchaieff.
Caerleon drew a long breath. To be led out, and shot like a dog! But
his stubborn English pride came to his aid. Show any sign of flinching
before these Scythian spies and Thracian traitors? Never! and he
squared his shoulders and held his head erect as he was led out of the
room. On the threshold a thought struck him, and he paused to say--
“I do not know whether this rebellion is to be conducted according to
the usages of civilised nations in time of war, but in any case I
entreat you, for the honour of Thracia, to allow Prince Otto Georg of
Schwarzwald-Molzau to return unharmed to his own country. He came here
merely as my guest, and has taken no part in Thracian politics.”
“Make your mind easy, milord,” said a tall man, with a strong likeness
to General Sertchaieff, who stood among the returned exiles. “As the
representative of my gracious sovereign, I can assure you that the
King of Thracia does not make war on non-combatants.”
Caerleon bowed his head in acknowledgment of the reply, and followed
his guards. They passed through the courtyard, where the first snow
lay on the ground, new-fallen, then out through the gardens. A few
steps further brought them to the batteries on the river-face of the
town, and they were ordered to enter the lift by which shells and
ammunition were raised from the shore. The descent accomplished, they
came out on the bank of the river, where a boat was lying, manned by
two sailors whom Louis addressed in Scythian. The prisoners were
thrust in without ceremony, the soldiers took their places, and the
boat was pushed off from the shore.
“Caerleon,” said Cyril, in a low voice, “I’m sorry I’ve brought you to
this, old man. If I had had the sense to see through that blackguard
O’Malachy, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Oh, don’t go and blame yourself,” said Caerleon, hastily. “It’s just
as much my fault. Wright, I wish you were not obliged to lie just on
my chest. No, don’t wriggle, that’s worse.”
“Silence, dogs!” said one of the soldiers, angrily, and the boatmen
rowed steadily on until they reached the Scythian steamer which had
attracted Cyril’s notice that afternoon. The prisoners were dragged up
the ladder, and placed in a row on the deck.
“You have one more chance,” said Louis O’Malachy to Caerleon. “Will
you sign?”
“No,” returned Caerleon, doggedly.
“Then I must carry out my orders. Your fate is on your own head.”