TWO FIGHT: ONE FALLS
Fenton left the room with his mind filled with surging, angry emotions.
For some time he paced up and down in front of the lodge, thinking over
what the princess had told him and vainly cudgeling his brain for a
plan to circumvent the Grand Duke. He could not yet accept defeat.
Instead, he felt confident that there was some way out, that he could
save her. The more he struggled with the problem and realised the
cunning with which Miridoff had made his plans, the greater became his
determination.
He finally sought out Crane and frankly put the facts before him.
Although he had known the voluble and irascible young Englishman for
little more than a day, Fenton had already come to place the utmost
reliance in him. On the tramp that afternoon from Larescu's
headquarters they had discussed the political situation in Ironia, and
Fenton had unreservedly stated the incidents leading up to the
abduction of the princess.
Crane heard of the latest development with every manifestation of deep
anger. But his resentment, after all, had to spend itself in futile
threats and mighty sounding oaths; he had no practical suggestions to
offer.
"The part of it that I can't understand," said Fenton finally, "is with
reference to the gipsy band who are to perform this infamous ceremony.
I thought Larescu controlled all the people in the hills."
"You'll run into wandering tribes of gipsies in all parts of the Balkan
countries," replied Crane, shaking his head. "They have no
nationality. They come and go as they please and know no law but the
word of their chief. One of the hill men told me to-night that some of
the Pesth band were camped over there to the west of us. They'll do
anything, these gipsies, if the reward is sufficient or the pressure
brought to bear strong enough."
"It's my opinion that Miridoff is bluffing," declared Fenton, clutching
at a straw. "He is trying to frighten the princess into marrying him.
For all we know, Prince Peter is now safe at home in Serajoz."
But again Crane shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "When
you know Ironia as well as I do, you'll realise that this is exactly
what might be expected to happen. Prince Peter stands in Miridoff's
path--he must be removed. The princess refuses to marry him--she must
be forced. There is no way of warning the prince. If the pledge is
not sent in the way prescribed--Peter will surely die."
Hastily, desperately they debated many plans, but discarded them all as
either too dangerous or not feasible, and it was with a feeling closely
akin to despair that Fenton finally realised the time had come for Olga
to keep the appointment at the Hawk's Rest--and that he had found no
way to save her. Then all of a sudden determination came to him. He
sprang to his feet and grimly examined his revolvers to see if they
were properly loaded.
"It may be necessary for the princess to go through with this marriage
in order to save her father's life," he declared, with implacable
purpose burning in his eyes. "But Miridoff shall never return to
Kirkalisse. That I swear."
After arranging with Crane to see that Olga was escorted to the Hawk's
Rest, Fenton set out with a guide for the same place. When he arrived
there he sent his guide back and carefully reconnoitred the ground. It
was a clearing on the crest of one of the highest hills. It was
approached by two paths; one from the hunting lodge, the other from
Kirkalisse. The latter road ran for a considerable distance along the
precipitous side of the mountain. Up to a certain point it was wide
and level enough. Not many yards from the junction the road narrowed
till it became little more than a cramped path.
The gipsies were camped in the clearing. A large fire blazed in the
centre, the flames rising at times almost to the tops of the
surrounding trees.
Fenton decided to station himself as near the clearing as he could
without being observed. The surrounding thicket presented ample means
for concealment. He finally placed himself close by the path from
Kirkalisse.
No clearly defined purpose had yet formed in his mind. He was prepared
to let fate map out his course of action now, and it was probably with
an instinctive idea of protecting Olga that he placed himself on the
path by which Miridoff would come.
It was very still, save for the low hum of voices in the clearing
behind. Fenton peered anxiously into the darkness. Three or four
yards in front of him a bend occurred in the narrow path, and the brush
on his left hid the slender ribbon of roadway. To his right was the
precipice, a sheer drop of many hundred feet.
As he listened, the sound of footsteps came from beyond the bend in the
path. They drew closer, and around the bend appeared the figure of a
man. The new-comer was muffled in a military cloak, beneath which
dangled a sabre. He wore a military cap. Fenton recognised Miridoff,
and instantly the spell of indecision passed. An idea flashed through
his mind, determining his course of action. Stepping forward, the
Canadian barred the path.
"Stop!" he commanded in German.
Miridoff recognised the voice. "You!" he exclaimed, instinctively
drawing back a pace and freeing his sword arm from the folds of the
cloak. For a moment the two men regarded each other in tense silence.
"We are well met," declared Miridoff then. "You have crossed my path
once too often. This time I shall finish you!"
"Well met indeed," said Fenton, with a grim laugh that had something of
triumph in it--for suddenly there came to him a way to save the
princess. "You come just in time, your grace, to enable me to carry
out a certain plan. I need----"
Miridoff flung back his cloak and drew a pistol from his belt.
Realising that a fraction of a second's delay would cost him his life,
Fenton hurled himself bodily forward and pinned the Grand Duke's arms
to his sides. The impact carried them back close to the edge of the
precipice. The revolver Miridoff had drawn fell from his grasp and
clattered on the rocky path.
"Presumptuous, meddling fool!" exclaimed the Grand Duke, straining to
loosen the hold of his young adversary. "It is fitter that you die
this way than that I should soil my sword."
"Trickster, traitor, assassin!" answered Fenton, exerting the utmost of
his strength to maintain his hold on his powerful adversary. "You'll
never live to complete your theft of a bride! Before you die--I want
you to know--that we took the lodge an hour ago. The wireless is in
our hands. Before I throw you over the cliff, think of this--your
plans will miscarry, you will be remembered in Ironia as--the man who
tried to sell his country!"
Fenton's breath had come in puffs; it was difficult to speak when he
needed all his energies for action.
They struggled back and forth. Both were powerful men; Miridoff had
the advantage in weight and strength, but Fenton was the more lithe and
active. They were well matched. Almost on the edge of the precipice
they fought it out, a grim struggle to the death. Once Fenton's foot
slipped over the edge, but he regained his firm footing on the ledge
again almost instantly. Miridoff, hampered by his cloak, managed to
free himself from its folds. It fell under their feet and nearly ended
the fight by tripping them both.
Fenton fought with calculating coolness, but his mind was in a turmoil.
If he could master this man the happiness of the princess would be
assured, for it would give him an opportunity to carry out the plan
that had flashed through his mind a few minutes before. If he failed
to conquer the Grand Duke, then Olga was lost.
The thought spurred him to something like super-human efforts. He
struggled fiercely, animated with a determination to kill his
adversary. He became the physical embodiment of that one idea.
Miridoff must be put out of the way.
The darkness closed down more dense than ever over the tightly clenched
figures. They swayed this way and that, careless of death that faced
them both if they went a foot too far. At intervals Fenton caught
fleeting glimpses of the red glow which he knew to be Hawk's Rest,
where perhaps Olga was now waiting--unconsciously waiting the outcome
of the struggle.
* * * * *
Then it became apparent that the equality of the struggle had ceased.
One of the antagonists had secured a hold on the other's throat. The
beaten man struggled backward to escape from the relentless grip of his
opponent. His effort was successful. He broke away free. But his
foot was over the edge. His effort to free himself had carried him
back too far. An instant he swayed uncertainly on the edge, then fell
backward.
The victor stood a moment silently glancing into the darkness through
which the black, shapeless form had hurtled down.
Then he turned and picked up the cloak.