MARRIED OVER THE TONGS
From the blackness of night that had settled down over the mountains,
Olga emerged into the clear space that was known as Hawk's Rest, in the
centre of which was a blazing fire and about which sat in curious
groups the gipsies of the Pesth band. The setting was weird enough and
fantastic enough to have been transplanted from a past century, when
the nomad was legion, and the comprachicos thrived under the wing of
royalty. The uncertain play of the flames against the background of
tangled firs wrought awesome figures out of the gloom, and, throwing a
reddish tinge on the swarthy gipsy faces, rendered them unreal and
grotesque. The band were dressed in the picturesque garb of the
eastern nomad that has survived the changing influence of several
centuries. Bedecked in the most brilliant colours, the women decorated
by rouge and rings, the men with pistols and daggers, they presented in
the flickering light a spectacle that one would never forget.
Muffled in a dark cloak and masked, the princess stepped into the
lighted space near the fire. Of the timidity that might have been
expected to manifest itself, not a trace was to be found. Her step was
slow but resolute, and in her whole attitude a calm fearlessness was
reflected. Truth to tell, Olga was as unconscious of external
impressions as though she were treading the polished floor of a
ball-room. Her mind was obsessed with a double fear that weighed upon
her consciousness with deadening persistence--fear for her father's
life, and fear for herself--afterward. She had no thought of turning
back, no sense of self-pity, no idea of the magnitude of her sacrifice.
Her duty was quite clear, but equally clear was the realisation of what
it meant. As she stepped close to the centre of the gipsy ring she
mentally bade farewell to youth, hope, love, happiness--everything.
The gipsy chief stood beside the fire--tall, withered, white-haired, a
wraith of a man in fantastic garb that bespoke his rank. A gipsy chief
is more absolute than any king; his word is the law of the band, his
will the guiding factor. The attitude of the old gipsy was
unmistakably regal.
Out of the shadows on the opposite side came the figure of Miridoff. A
mask covered his whole face. He was cloaked and hatted for a journey,
and his gait showed haste, even a degree of nervousness.
Olga went through the ceremony that followed in a daze. Standing in
front of the hissing, spitting flames, her hand clasped in that of the
Grand Duke and extended over the tongs, she heard the old chief's
cracked voice proclaim the unknown words that tied her for ever to the
man she had so much reason to fear and hate. As the ritual proceeded,
the gipsies--seated far away it seemed to her from the monotonous sound
of their voices, though occasionally through the intermittent flash of
the flames, their faces appeared to glower directly at her through
panes of magic flame--started up a chant. It was a mournful strain,
gathering volume as it proceeded and finally culminating in an outburst
of sound that expressed triumph and passion.
Was ever the sacred rite performed under circumstances more
repugnant--gipsy tongs for an altar, a sinister gipsy chief for a
priest, the wild Romany chant for a hymn of gladness, the shrouding
darkness of the mountain-side for a cathedral, and the much-feared and
much-hated Miridoff for a bridegroom! Some thought of the incongruity
of it all penetrated to Olga's mind through the deep fear that had
taken hold of her. As the concluding bars of the gipsy ritual rose
from around her, she snatched her hand from the grasp of Miridoff and
tightly clasped her ears to shut out the sound. A sob escaped her.
Her weakness was but momentary. Quickly marshalling her forces of
resolution, the princess dropped into the withered hand of the chief
the ring which would ensure her father's safety and for which she had
sold herself into life-long bondage. The chief transferred it to a
husky young gipsy and spoke a few words of instruction.
"Tell him to hasten," pleaded Olga. "He must not fail to carry the
pledge to its destination within the specified time! Tell him that
riches shall be his, untold riches, if he carries out his mission. I
promise it."
Turning to Miridoff who was standing by silently and, truth to tell, a
little awkwardly, she urged upon him the necessity for haste on the
part of the messenger. "I have paid your price," she reminded him.
Miridoff bowed; but did not speak. Taking her by the arm he led her
from the Hawk's Rest, and out along the narrow path by which she had
come from the hunting lodge. Where the path narrowed so that single
file became necessary, he dropped to the rear and they walked on in
silence for a spell of perhaps ten minutes.
Olga felt unutterably weary. Mental anguish had drawn heavily on her
strength, and the excitement of the day had brought her to the verge of
a collapse. As they reached the turn of the broad trail that led up to
the lodge, the small remnant of her strength that was left deserted
her. She stopped, stretched out one hand for support, and then fell
back in a faint.
Olga came back to life with a strange sense of security and comfort.
Her head rested on a broad, comfortable shoulder. Two arms encompassed
her. She was being carried up the steep, winding trail with an ease
that bespoke unusual strength in her bearer. Too weak to move, too
faint even for curiosity, she lay inertly in his arms. She realised
dimly where they were when at last they entered the lodge, and it was
with a faint regret that she felt herself lowered--so carefully and
tenderly--to a couch.
Deft hands placed and adjusted cushions; there was a sound of much
hurrying to and fro, and several voices close at hand. Out of the
jumble of sounds that registered partially on her slowly reviving
senses, came a new voice, sharp and incisive, which said: "Hands up!"
Followed a pause and then a laugh, hearty and spontaneous but
restrained, out of deference, she dimly realised, for her condition.
Then a voice came out of the mists that was very familiar--and also
very dear. There was more talk, more laughing, and then full
consciousness came back to her with a shock! Words had distinctly
reached her out of the indistinct babel of sounds, three words that
electrified her, sending her heart beating wildly. "Miridoff is dead,"
someone had said.
Olga would have spoken, but found that weakness and excitement had
combined to render her powerless either to move or speak. She heard
the familiar and dear voice--and now she realised why it was dear, and
just how dear it was--this time speaking from very close at hand.
"Hand me the cordial, Crane," it said. Then an arm was slipped under
her shoulders, and she was raised slightly from her recumbent position
while a spoon was inserted between her lips. The cordial revived her
wonderfully, but she did not open her eyes. Perhaps it was because she
found the pressure of that strong arm so comforting.
"Hold on, Fenton," said the sharp and incisive voice. "Aren't you kind
of making that business of supporting the invalid a bit too realistic?
You act more like a lover than a nurse!"
And then came the astounding reply: "Hang it, Crane, can't I hug my own
wife?"