THE ASSASSINATION
Events moved fast in Ironia. At five o'clock Peter was publicly
declared King, the announcement being received with manifestations of
the wildest joy in Serajoz. At five-thirty an official statement of
Ironia's intentions was communicated to the Ambassadors of Austria,
Germany and Turkey, and their passports were handed to them. At six
o'clock the first regiment marched out of the capital for the front,
through streets lined with deliriously happy multitudes.
The work of mobilisation was begun in feverish haste. King Peter spent
three hours directing the efforts of the general staff and in
conference with the leading bankers. As he worked, however, the new
monarch never for a moment lost sight of the grim spectre that had
haunted him for two days. Varden had brought him word of the abduction
of Olga just as he was preparing for his trip to the frontier. Since
then he had heard no news of her.
A Spartan in everything else, Peter had been the most loving and
indulgent of fathers. Olga, left an orphan when less than a year old,
had soon gained complete possession of her father's heart. He had
pampered and petted her in quite as complete a degree as any fond
parent that ever ruined a child in sheer blindness of affection; but
Olga, having one of those rare natures that cannot be spoiled, even by
parental indulgence, had developed greater stores of sweetness and
grace in the strong light of her father's love. It can be surmised,
therefore, that when the news of the abduction of the princess had
reached him he had been thrown into a ferment of fear; but, knowing how
much the welfare of Ironia depended upon him, Peter had delayed his
departure only long enough to issue instructions for the pursuit of her
abductors.
The news awaiting him on his return had been disquieting. No direct
clue as to her whereabouts had been found, although there was plenty of
evidence to show that the abduction had been the work of brigands from
the hills. It was with a heavy heart, therefore, that Peter applied
himself to the multitudinous duties devolving upon him with his sudden
accession to the throne of Ironia on the eve of her entry into the war.
Outside the demonstration continued, growing in enthusiasm as hour
succeeded hour. Military headquarters were besieged by men begging for
an opportunity to enlist. A statue in the square before the royal
palace, representing the lost provinces, was literally covered with
flowers. The public streets were rendered quite impassable by the
masses of exuberant citizens who loudly acclaimed the new King, and
clamoured for a sight of him.
About the time that His Majesty rose from the desk to which he had been
chained for three hours of unremitting activity, Fenton, weary and
dust-laden, astride a foam-flecked horse, turned into the north end of
the Lodz. On receiving the startling intelligence that the human
instrument of Miridoff's foul purpose had followed Prince Peter to the
capital, intent on carrying out his work, Fenton had at once secured a
guide from Larescu and had negotiated a difficult short cut through the
mountain country. Arriving at the base of the chain of hills in the
early forenoon, he had procured a horse. An all-day gallop with one
change of mount in the late afternoon, brought him to the city about
nine o'clock, in a condition bordering on total collapse. Since his
arrival in Ironia, Fenton had found little opportunity for sleep, and
his exploits had been as varied as they were arduous. By sheer force
of will only was he able to maintain his seat in the saddle.
The presence of dense crowds in the Lodz did not surprise him; all the
way down from the hill country he had found increasing evidences of
excitement which satisfied him that Crane's spectacular coup had
finally brought Ironia into the war.
As the density of the crowd grew he was forced to abandon his mount and
continue forward toward the palace of the prince on foot. It became
very slow work, until finally Fenton's patience gave way. Fearing that
every moment lost might cost the prince his life, Fenton broke
recklessly through the crush which inevitably brought him into conflict
in a crowd where the fighting spirit ran so high. As he crossed the
square in front of the King's palace a much excited and picturesquely
ragged man blocked his way determinedly. Fenton roughly elbowed him
aside and received in reprisal a blow in the face. His assailant
poured out a volume of abuse in French, which caused the Canadian to
turn and regard him curiously. To his delight Fenton recognised his
acquaintance of the Greek restaurant, Monsieur Francois Dubois.
"Dubois, by all that's holy!" he cried. "It's lucky I can claim a
prior acquaintance, otherwise I fear you would be inclined to show me
no mercy. You have plenty of strength left in that arm of yours, my
friend."
"Monsieur Fenton," cried the Frenchman. "Ah, my young friend, forgive
me. I have strength left, yes--strength to shoulder a rifle, monsieur.
To-morrow I enlist for the service."
"I am just back from the hill country," said Fenton. "What is the
news? Has war been declared yet?"
"War was declared by our good King Peter within an hour of his
accession to the throne," cried the Frenchman.
"King Peter!" exclaimed Fenton, surveying Monsieur Dubois as though he
feared the Frenchman had been suddenly bereft of his senses.
"It was just as I told you, monsieur. Alexander would not give in.
When he found that war could no longer be staved off he abdicated, and
Peter became King."
"Then I must lose no time," cried Fenton. "It is doubly important that
I get to him at once. I have news of a plot against his life."
He plunged with reckless haste through the crowds, opening an avenue by
sheer force, and thus enabling Monsieur Dubois to follow along in his
wake without difficulty.
"Make way! In the name of the King!" cried the Frenchman in the native
tongue. This caused the people in front to give way. Nevertheless the
progress of the pair was intolerably slow.
There is an emotional strain in the Ironian which manifests itself in
moments of stress and unusual excitement. When stirred by any deep
emotion he will emit strange cries and break into high-pitched
interminable chants. To the visitor this tendency is inexplicable, and
it has contributed not a little to the feeling among other races that
there is something uncanny about the men of the Balkan mountains. As
Fenton piloted Monsieur Dubois through the square this monotonous chant
arose from all sides, and, mingling with the shrill and warlike cries,
created a literal pandemonium of sound.
As they neared the front of the palace there was a stir which indicated
that something of importance was happening. As Fenton looked the
windows opening on to a balcony to the right of the main entrance were
thrown back and two officers stepped out. The noise ceased almost
instantly, and a silence settled down over the square. Following the
two officers came Peter, in uniform and bare-headed. He stepped to the
front of the balcony, and, resting his hands on the top of the
grotesquely ornamental iron railing, swept the crowded square and the
streets beyond with a proud eye.
His appearance was the signal for an outbreak even more vociferous than
before. Peter had always been popular with the people of Ironia, more
popular than the haughty, unbending Alexander. His advocacy of the
allied cause had cemented the affection of the populace, and now his
prompt action following his accession to the throne raised him as a
national hero even to the pinnacle of Alexander Sobiesku of revered
memory.
The King raised his hand as a signal for silence, and again the noise
died down to the uncertain rumble of a mob at rest. Fenton, wedged in
firmly and unable to make any material progress either forward or back,
had up to this point kept his gaze fixed on the stately figure of the
King. Now his glance wandered to a burly fellow just ahead of him, a
peasant from his garb. The man attracted Fenton's attention in some
inexplicable way, and as the Canadian watched he perceived something
which caused him to cry out in frantic tones of alarm.
"Men of Ironia," the King began in clear tones that carried each word
distinctly to the farthest confines of the square. Then of a sudden
came the sharp crack of a revolver shot, and Peter staggered back from
the railing into the arms of the officers behind him.
The peasant had levelled a revolver over the shoulder of the man in
front of him. Fenton, perceiving the move, had torn a path through the
press toward the assassin. His hands had closed almost on the
peasant's shoulder when the explosion broke the silence.
"Too late! My God, to have him within my reach and not stop him,"
groaned Fenton, stunned with the catastrophe that had occurred before
his very eyes.
He reeled blindly in the rush of the enraged mob and was buffeted here
and there. The gun-man had apparently been surrounded by accomplices
and friends, for the vengeance-seeking mob was held back and hampered
in its pursuit of the daring peasant. In the darkness and confusion
the assassin disappeared, swallowed up in the agitated sea of humanity.
Two days later he was given up and summarily shot; but, having no
foreknowledge of this, the crowd, balked of their prey and frantic with
anxiety for the wounded monarch, descended to depths of vengeful,
berserk fury that could vent itself only in indiscriminate conflict.
Friend fought friend, blows were struck with savage hate, blood flowed
freely.
Fenton found himself propelled out of the now almost bestial crowd to a
side street where comparative calm reigned. Monsieur Dubois, guessing
how near to the point of total collapse his companion was, hurried
Fenton to the nearest open shop and there procured a brimming beaker of
strong liquor. After drinking the restorative Fenton felt a measure of
his strength return.
"Another moment and Monsieur Fenton would have been under the feet of
the mob," said the Frenchman. "They are wild for blood back there!
Hearken to their cries! If the King dies, not an Austrian will be left
alive in this city by break of day."
"If he dies!" echoed Fenton in an agony of remorse. "To think that I
arrived just too late. If he dies I shall feel as guilty as the wretch
who fired the shot!"
"He cannot--he must not die!" cried Dubois. "Ironia needs the strong
hand of her King now. God will not take him away when he has but
placed his hand to the plough."
* * * * *
Back in the palace two physicians were bending over the prostrate
figure of the wounded King with significant silence.
"He still lives," said one finally, "but----"
And the other nodded with grim acquiescence.