The King had not done yet; there was honor for the Prince's friends,

too; men should know that service to the Royal House was meritorious in

proportion to the illustrious position of that House. Zerkovitch stood

forward and was made Chevalier of the Cross of Kravonia. The occasion

cost Zerkovitch the price of a Court suit, but for Marie's sake he bore

the outlay patiently. Then the King, having refreshed himself with a

draught which his valet Lepage brought him, turned to his most pleasing

task. The Keeper of the Tapestries was called from her place in the

circle beside Marie Zerkovitch. Colonel Stafnitz had not noticed her

standing there, but now he gave a little start; the figure seemed

familiar. He turned his head round to Markart, who was just behind him.

"Yes, that's her," Markart whispered in answer to the question in the

Colonel's eyes. The eyes flew back to Sophy instantly. There, too, was

set the gaze of Countess Ellenburg. For Sophy was in full beauty that

day. She, too, loved toys; and her ancient hatred of the name to which

she had been born must be remembered. Her eyes glowed, and the Red Star

glowed on her cheek. All her air was triumphant as she courtesied to the

King, and then stood, erect and proud, to hear his gracious words.

Gracious his words were for her deed, and gracious his smile for her

comely beauty. He could at least look a king--no man denied him

that--and speak in kingly phrases. "A service unmatched in courage, and

immeasurable in importance to us and our Royal House, the preservation

of our dearly loved son and only Heir." (Countess Ellenburg looked down

her nose at that!) For such an act did he confer a patent of nobility on

Sophy, and for greater honor gave her, as title the name of one of his

own estates, together with a charge on its revenues equal to her new

dignity.

He ended and sank back in his chair. Her Prince came forward and kissed

her hand before them all. Countess Ellenburg bowed condescendingly. A

decorous murmur of applause filled the hall as, with shining eyes,

Sophia, Baroness Dobrava, courtesied again very low.

So, as Sophy Grouch had gone, went Sophie de Gruche!

"She's delighted--poor child!" whispered Marie Zerkovitch; but only

Julia Robins, in England far away, heard the full torrent of Sophy's

simple, child-like exultation. Such a letter went to her that

night!--but there was stuff in it besides the Baroness's pæan.

Suddenly a childish voice rang out clear through the hall--a fearless,

eager little voice.

"What's that you've got on your cheek?" asked young Alexis, with

engaging candor; his finger pointed at Sophy's face.

So quaint an interruption to the stately formality of the scene struck

people's sense of humor. Everybody laughed--even Countess Ellenburg.

Sophy's own laugh rose rich and merry. Her ignorance or carelessness of

etiquette betrayed itself; she darted at the pretty boy, caught him in

her arms, and kissed him, answering: "That's my luck--my Red Star."

The boy touched the mark with his finger; a look of childish awe came

into his blue eyes.

"Your luck!" he said, softly, and continued to look at the mysterious

sign after Sophy had set him down again. The little scene was told all

over Slavna before night--and men and women talked, according to their

temper, of the nature and the meaning of the Red Star. If only the

foolish think about such things, even the wise talk.

The King left his chair and mingled with his guests. His movement was

the signal for a general relaxation of ceremony. The Prince came across

the room and joined Sophy, who had returned to Marie Zerkovitch's side.

He offered the Baroness his congratulations, but in somewhat constrained

tones. His mind seemed to be on something else; once or twice he looked

inquiringly at Marie, who in her turn showed signs of restlessness or

distress. A silence followed on Sophy's expression of her

acknowledgments. The Prince glanced again at Marie and made up his mind

to speak.

"You've done me the kindness I asked?" he inquired of Marie.

Marie picked at the feathers of her fan in unhappy embarrassment. "No,

sir, I haven't. I--I couldn't."

"But why not?" he asked in surprise.

"I--I couldn't," repeated Marie, flushing.

He looked at her gravely for a moment, then smiled. "Then I must plead

my own cause," he said, and turned to Sophy. "Next week I'm leaving

Slavna and going to my Castle of Praslok. It's near Volseni, you know,

and I want to raise and train my gunners at Volseni. We must be ready

for our guns when they come, mustn't we?"

His eyes met hers--eager glance exchanged for glance as eager. "Our

guns!" whispered Sophy under her breath.

"Marie here and Zerkovitch have promised to come with me. He'll write

what ought to be written, and she'll cook the dinners." He laughed. "Oh,

well, we do live very simply at Praslok. We shall be there three months

at least. I asked Marie to persuade you to come with her and to stay as

long as you could. But she's disappointed me. I must plead for myself."

The changing expressions of Sophy's eyes had marked every sentence of

his speech, and Marie marked every expression of the eyes. They had

grown forlorn and apprehensive when he spoke of leaving Slavna; a sudden

joy leaped into them at his invitation to Praslok.

"You'll come for a little? The scenery is very fine, and the people

interesting."

Sophy gave a low laugh. "Since the scenery is fine and the people

interesting--yes, Monseigneur."

Their eyes met again, and he echoed back her laugh. Marie Zerkovitch

drew in her breath sharply. With swift insight she saw--and foresaw. She

remembered the presentiment, under whose influence she had begged Sophy

not to come to Kravonia. But fate had weighted the scales heavily

against her. The Baroness Dobrava was here.

The Prince turned to Marie with a puzzled look. Sophy was lost in glad

anticipations. Marie met the Prince's look with a deprecating imploring

glance. He frowned a little--not in anger, but in puzzle; what she

foresaw he himself had not yet divined; he was feeling the joy without

understanding it.

"At any rate you're not responsible now if we do freeze her to death

with our mountain snows," he said in a jest which veiled friendly

reproach.

"No, at least I'm not responsible," Marie answered.

There was a note in her voice now which commanded even Sophy's

pre-engaged attention. She looked sharply at her friend--and perhaps she

understood. But she did not yield to the suggestion. She drew herself up

proudly. "I'm not afraid of what may happen to me at Praslok,

Monseigneur," she said.

A simultaneous exclamation of many voices broke across their talk. At

the other end of the room, men and women pressed into a circle round

some point of interest which could not be seen by Sophy and her

companions. A loud voice rang out in authoritative tones: "Stand back!

Stand back--and open all the windows!"

"That's Natcheff's voice," said the Prince. Natcheff was the leading

physician of Slavna. "Somebody's fainted, I suppose. Well, the place is

stuffy enough!"

Markart emerged from the circle, which had widened out in obedience to

the physician's orders. As he hurried past the Prince, he said: "The

King has fainted, sir. I'm going to fetch Lepage." Two or three other

men ran and opened the windows.

"The King fainted! I never knew him do that before."

He hastened to where his father lay, the subject of Natcheff's

ministrations. Sophy and Marie followed in his wake through the opening

which the onlookers made for him. The King showed signs of recovering,

but Natcheff's face was grave beyond even the requirements of his

profession or of his patient's rank. The next moment Lepage came up.

This man, the King's body-servant, was a small, plump person, who had

generally a weary, impassive, uninterested manner. He looked rather

uninterested even now, but his walk was very quick, and he was soon

aiding Natcheff with deft and nimble fingers.

"This is strange, Lepage," said Natcheff.

Lepage did not look up from his task.

"Has it ever happened before?"

Then Lepage did look up. He appeared to consider and to hesitate. He

glanced once at the King before he answered.

"It's the third attack in two months," he said, at last.

"You never told me!" The words shot sharp from Natcheff's lips.

"That was by His Majesty's peremptory orders. He'll be angry that I've

told you now."

"Clear the room!" ordered Natcheff, shortly.

Slavna had plenty to talk about that night. Besides the Baroness

Dobrava's Red Star, there was the fainting fit of King Alexis! The

evening bulletin was entirely favorable; the King had quite recovered.

But many had heard Lepage's confession and seen the look that it brought

to Natcheff's face.

Stenovics and Stafnitz rode back from the Palace to the city side by

side. The General was silent, immersed in deep thought. Stafnitz smoked

his cigarette with a light, rather mocking smile. At last, when they

were almost opposite the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris, Stenovics spoke.

"It looks like the handwriting on the wall," he said.

"Quite so, General," Stafnitz agreed, cheerfully. "But at present

there's no evidence to show to whom, besides the King himself, the

message is addressed."

"Or what it says?"

"I think that's plain enough, General. I think it says that the time is

short."

He watched his companion's face closely now. But Stenovics's mask was

stolid and unmoved; he said nothing; he contented himself with a sullen

grunt.

"Short for the King!" pursued Stafnitz, with a shake of his head. "Short

for the Prince, perhaps! And certainly, General, uncomfortably short for

us!"

Stenovics grunted again, and then rode on some while in silence. At

last, just as he was about to part from his companion, he made one

observation:

"Fortunately Natcheff is a friend of mine; we shall get the best

possible information."

"That might become of importance, no doubt, General," said Stafnitz,

smiling still.

VIII

MONSEIGNEUR'S UNIFORM

Dr. Natcheff amply reassured public opinion. What information he gave to

General Stenovics, his friend, is another matter, and remained locked in

that statesman's heart. Publicly and to everybody else, from the Prince

of Slavna downward, he declared that there was no ground for

apprehension, and that the King merely needed rest and change; after a

few days of the former it was proposed to seek the latter by moving the

Court to His Majesty's country-seat at Dobrava--that estate from which

Sophy had been graciously bidden to choose her title. Meanwhile, there

was no reason why the Prince should not carry out his intention, and

proceed to the Castle of Praslok.

Below Slavna, the main post-road--as has already been stated, there was

no railway at this time--follows the course of the River Krath for about

five miles in a southeasterly direction. It is then carried across the

stream (which continues to trend to the south) by an ancient wooden

bridge, and runs northeast for another fifteen miles, through flat

country, and past prosperous agricultural and pastoral villages, till it

reaches the marshy land bordering Lake Talti. The lake, extending from

this point to the spurs of the mountain-range which forms the frontier,

bars its farther direct progress, and it divides into two branches. The

right prong of the fork continues on the level till it reaches Dobrava,

eight miles from the point of bisection; here it inclines to the

northeast again, and, after some ten miles of steady ascent, crosses the

mountains by St. Peter's Pass, the one carriage-road over the range and

over the frontier. The left prong becomes a steep ascent directly the

bisection has occurred, rising sharply for five miles to the hill on

which the Castle of Praslok stands. Then it runs for another five miles

on a high plateau till it ends at the hill city of Volseni, which stands

on the edge of the plateau, looking down on Lake Talti and across to

Dobrava in the plain opposite.

Beyond Volseni there is no road in the proper sense, but only cart or

bridle-tracks. Of these the principal and most frequented runs

diagonally across the valley in which Lake Talti lies, is interrupted by

the lake (at that point about a mile and a half wide), and then meets

the road from Dobrava half-way up St. Peter's Pass, and about twenty

miles across-country from Volseni. It thus forms the base of a rough and

irregular triangle of country, with the point where the Slavna road

bisects, the Pass and Volseni marking its three angles. Lake Talti is

set in the middle, backed by a chain of hills continuous everywhere

except at the indentation of the Pass.

Though so near to Slavna in actual distance, the country is very

different from the fertile river-valley which surrounds the capital; it

is bleak and rough, a land of hill pastures and mountain woods. Its

natural features are reflected in the character of the inhabitants. The

men who count Volseni a local capital are hardier than the men of

Slavna, less given to luxury, less addicted to quarrels and riots, but

considerably more formidable opponents if once they take up arms. For

this reason, no less than on account of their devotion to him, the

Prince did well to choose this country as the recruiting-ground for his

new force of gunners.

The Prince had been at Praslok for a week when Sophy set out to join him

there. At the last moment, Zerkovitch decided to remain in Slavna, at

least until the Court made its promised move to Dobrava: reassuring as

Dr. Natcheff was, it would do no harm to have a friendly pair of eyes

and ears in the capital so long as the King remained in residence. Thus

the two ladies were accompanied only by Peter Vassip, whom the Prince

had sent to escort them. They set out in a heavy travelling-carriage at

ten in the morning, reckoning to reach the Castle before evening fell;

their progress would never be rapid, and for the last five miles

exceedingly slow. They left the capital in complete tranquillity, and

when Sophy settled her bill at the sign of the Silver Cock, and bade

farewell to old Meyerstein, her landlord, he expressed the hope that she

would soon be back, though, indeed, his poor house was, he feared, no

fit quarters for the Baroness Dobrava.

"I don't know whether I shall come back here, but I can never forget

your house. I shall always love it in my memory," said Sophy.

Max von Hollbrandt had obtained leave of absence from his Legation, and

had accompanied the Prince to Praslok. The two were friends, having many

tastes in common, and not least the taste for soldiering. Besides having

the pleasure of his company, the Prince looked to obtain valuable aid

from Max in the task on which he was engaged. The young German was

amused and delighted with his expedition. Praslok is a primitive old

place. It stands on an abrupt mound, or knob, of ground by the

road-side. So steep and sudden is the ascent, that it was necessary to

build a massive causeway of wood--an inclined plane--to lead up from the

road to the gate of the square tower which forms the front of the

building; the causeway has cross-bars at short intervals, to give

foothold to the horses which, in old days, were stabled within the

walls. Recently, however, modern stables had been built on the other

side of the road, and it had become the custom to mount the causeway and

enter the Castle on foot.

Within, the arrangements were quaint and very simple. Besides the tower

already mentioned, which contained the dining-room and two bedrooms

above it, the whole building, strictly conditioned by the shape of the

hill on which it stood, consisted of three rows of small rooms on the

ground-floor. In one row lived the Prince and his male guests, in the

second the servants, in the third the guard. The ladies were to be

accommodated in the tower above the dining-room. The rows of rooms

opened on a covered walk or cloister, which ran round the inner court of

the Castle. The whole was solidly built of gray stone--a business-like

old hill-fortress, strong by reason of its massive masonry and of the

position in which it stood. Considered as a modern residence--it had to

be treated humorously--so Max declared, and found much pleasure in it

from that point of view. The Prince, always indifferent to physical

comfort, and ever averse from luxury, probably did not realize how much

his ancestral stronghold demanded of his guests' indulgence. Old Vassip,

Peter's father, was major-domo--always in his sheepskin coat and high

boots. His old wife was cook. Half a dozen servants completed the

establishment, and of these three were grooms. The horses, in fact,

seemed to Max the only creatures whose comforts were at all on a modern

footing. But the Prince was entirely satisfied, and never so happy

anywhere as at Praslok. He loved the simple, hardy life; he loved even

more, though perhaps less consciously, the sense of being among friends.

He would not yield an inch to court popularity in Slavna; but his heart

went out to meet the unsought devotion of Volseni, the mountain town,

and its surrounding villages. Distant and self-restrained in Slavna,

here he was open, gay, and full of an almost boyish ardor.

"It's worth coming here, just to see its effect on you," Max told him,

as the two rode back together from Volseni on the day of Sophy's

arrival. They had been at work, and the recruiting promised well.

The Prince laughed gayly. "Coming here from Slavna is like fresh air

after an oven," he said. "No need to watch your tongue--or other

people's! You can laugh when you like, and frown when you like, without

a dozen people asking what's your motive for doing it."

"But, really, you shouldn't have chosen a diplomatist for your

companion, sir, if you feel like that."

"I haven't," he smiled. "I've left the diplomatist down there and

brought the soldier up. And now that the ladies are coming--"

"Ah, now we must watch our tongues a little bit! Madame Zerkovitch is

very pretty--and the Baroness might make me absolutely poetical!"

Least prying of men, yet Max von Hollbrandt could not resist sending

with this speech a glance at his companion--the visit of the Baroness

compelled this much tribute to curiosity. But the Prince's face was a

picture of unembarrassed pleasure.

"Then be poetical! We'll all be poetical!" he cried, merrily. "In the

intervals of drilling, be it understood!" he added, with a laugh.

Into this atmosphere, physical and moral--the exhilaration of keen

mountain breezes, the brightness of a winter sun, the play of high hopes

and of high spirit--came Sophy, with all her power of enjoying and her

ardor in imagining. Her mind leaped from the sad embraces of the past,

to fly to the arms of the present, to beckon gladly to the future. No

more than this had yet emerged into consciousness; she was not yet

asking how, for good or evil, she stood or was to stand towards the

Prince. Fortune had done wonderful things for her, and was doing more

yet. That was enough, and beyond that, for the moment, she was not

driven.

The mixture of poetry and drilling suited her to perfection. She got

both when she rode over to Volseni with the Prince. Crisp snow covered

the ground, and covered, too, the roofs of the old, gray, hill-side

city--long, sloping roofs, with here and there a round-tower with a

snow-clad extinguisher atop. The town was no more than one long street,

which bayed out at the farther end into a market-place. It stood with

its back against a mountain-side, defended on the other three sides by a

sturdy wall, which only now, after five centuries, began to crumble away

at the top.

At the city-gate bread and salt were brought to the Bailiff and his

companion, and she and he rode side by side down the long street to the

market-place. Here were two or three hundred, tall, fine fellows,

waiting their leader. Drill had not yet brought formality; on the sight

of him they gave a cheer and ran to form a ring about him. Many caught

his hand and pressed or kissed it. But Sophy, too, claimed their eyes.

It was very cold; she wore a short jacket of sable over her habit, and a

round cap of the same fur--gifts of Lady Meg's in the days of her

benevolence. She was at the pitch of pleasure and excitement.

In a moment, a quick-witted fellow divined who she was. "The lady who

saved him! The lady who saved him!" he cried, at the full pitch of his

voice. The Prince drew himself up in the saddle and saluted her. "Yes,

the lady who saved me," he said. Sophy had the cheers now, and they

mounted to her head with fumes of intoxication. It may be guessed how

the Red Star glowed!

"And you'll save him, if need be?" she cried--quite indiscreetly. The

Prince smiled and shook his head, but the answer was an enraptured

cheer. The hatred of Slavna was a recommendation to Volseni's increased

regard, the hint of danger a match to its fiery enthusiasm.

"A favor, Bailiff, a favor!" cried a young man of distinguished

appearance. He seemed to be well known and to carry weight, for there

were shouts of "Hear Lukovitch! Hear Lukovitch!"--and one called, with a

laugh: "Ay, listen to the Wolf!"

"What is it, Lukovitch?" asked the Prince.

"Make the lady of our company, Bailiff." New cheers were raised. "Make

her a lieutenant of our artillery."

Sophy laughed gayly.

"I have His Majesty's authority to choose my officers," said the Prince,

smiling. "Baroness, will you be a lieutenant, and wear our sheepskins in

place of your sables there?"

"It is your uniform, Monseigneur," Sophy answered, bowing her head.

Lukovitch sprang forward and kissed her hand.

"For our Bailiff's preserver as for our Bailiff, men of Volseni!" he

cried, loudly. The answering cheer brought tears to Sophy's sparkling

eyes. For a moment she could not see her Prince nor the men who thus

took her to their hearts.

Suddenly, in the midst of her exultation, she saw a face on the

outskirts of the throng. A small, spare man stood there, dressed in

unobtrusive tweeds, but making no effort to conceal himself; he was just

looking on, a stranger to the town, interested in the picturesque little

scene. The face was that of Lieutenant Rastatz.

She watched the drilling of the gunners, and then rode back with the

Prince, escorted beyond the gates by a cheering throng, which had now

been joined by many women. Dusk was falling, and the old, gray city took

on a ghostly look; the glory of the sunshine had departed. Sophy

shivered a little beneath her furs.

"Monseigneur, did you see Rastatz?" she asked.

"No, I didn't see him; but I knew he was here. Lukovitch told me

yesterday."

"And not in uniform!"

"He has leave, no doubt, and his uniform wouldn't make his stay in

Volseni any more pleasant."

"What's he there for?" she asked, fretfully.

"Ah, Baroness, you must inquire of those who sent him, I think." His

tone was light and merry.

"To spy on you, I suppose! I hate his being there. He--he isn't worthy

to be in dear Volseni."

"You and Volseni have fallen in love with each other, I see! As for

spying, all I'm doing I do openly, and all I shall do. But I don't

blame Stenovics for keeping an eye on me, or Stafnitz either. I do my

best to keep an eye on them, you know. We needn't be afraid of Rastatz,

we who have beaten Hercules Mistitch in open fight!"

"Oh, well, away with him!" cried Sophy. "The snow's not frozen--shall we

canter home, Monseigneur?"

Merrily they cantered through the fast falling evening, side by side.

Rastatz was out of mind now; all was out of mind save the fascination of

the crisp air, the silent suggestion of gathering night, her Prince who

rode beside her. The dark mass of the tower of Praslok rose too soon

before her unwilling eyes. She drew rein, sighing.

"If life were just all that and nothing else!" she said, as he helped

her to dismount and the grooms took the horses. She stopped half-way up

the steep wooden causeway and turned to look back towards Volseni. The

Prince stood close by her.

"That's good, but life has better things," he said, softly. "To ride

together is good, and to play together. But to work together is better

still, Baroness."

For a moment Sophy was silent. Then she laughed in joy.

"Well, I'm to wear your uniform henceforth, Monseigneur!"

He took her hand and kissed it. Very slowly and gradually she drew it

away, her eyes meeting his as he raised his head. The heavy door at the

top of the causeway opened; Marie Zerkovitch stood there, holding a lamp

high in her hand; the sudden light flooded their faces. For a moment

more he looked at her, then went down again on his way to the stables.

Sophy ran up to where Marie Zerkovitch stood.

"You heard our horses?" she asked, gayly.

But there was no responsive smile on Marie's lips. For her, too, the

light had shone on those two faces, and she was sorely troubled.

The next day again they rode together, and the next. On the third day,

Sophy rode into Volseni in the sheepskin cap and tunic, a short habit of

blue hiding her leather breeches and coming half-way over her long

boots. The Prince gave her his hand as they rode into the market-place.

Marie Zerkovitch trembled, Max von Hollbrandt shrugged his shoulders

with a laugh--and little Rastatz drove back to Slavna through the night.

He thought that he had seen enough for his purposes; his report might be

useful in the city on the Krath.

IX

COUNTESS ELLENBURG PRAYS

In Slavna, Dr. Natcheff continued his reassuring reports until the

public at large was so reassured as to ask for no more reports even of

the most optimistic description. But the state of mind of the few people

behind the scenes was very different. Stafnitz's conclusion held sway

there. The time was short! That was the ruling thought and the governing

fact. It might be very short; and the end might come without warning.

The secret was well kept, but to those to whom he spoke at all Natcheff

spoke openly. The King's life hung on a thread, which the least accident

might break. With perfect quiet and tranquillity he might live a year,

possibly two years; any shock or overstrain would precipitate the end.

Countess Ellenburg and her confidential friends knew this, the King knew

it himself, and Lepage his valet, knew it. There the possession of the

secret stopped.

The King was gay and courageous; courage, at least, he had never lacked.

He seemed almost indifferent. The best years were over, he said, and why

not an end? An end swift, without pain, without waiting! There was much

to be said for it. Lepage agreed with his master and told him so in his

usual blunt fashion; they agreed together not to cry about it, and the

King went fishing still. But the time was short, and he pushed on his

one great idea with a zeal and an earnestness foreign to his earlier

habit. He would see his son married, or at least betrothed, before he

died; he would see the great marriage in train--the marriage which was

to establish forever the rank and prestige of the House of Stefanovitch.

The Prince of Slavna must set forth on his travels, seeking a wife; the

King even designated a Princess of most unquestionable exaltedness, as

the first object of his son's attentions or pursuit. With an unusual

peremptoriness, and an unusual independence, he sent Stenovics orders to

communicate his wishes directly to the Prince. Stenovics received the

royal memorandum on the day on which Lieutenant Rastatz returned to

Slavna with the fruits of his observation at Volseni in his hand.

At first sight the King's commands were totally at variance with the

interests of the Ellenburg coterie, and with the progress of their great

plan. They did not want the House of Stefanovitch strengthened and

glorified in the person of its present Heir Apparent. But the matter was

more complicated than a first glance showed. There were the guns to be

considered as well--and the gunners training at Volseni; these would be

sources of strength and prestige to the Prince, not less valuable, more

tangible, than even a great match. And now the Prince was on the spot.

Send him on his travels! The time was short; when the short time ended,

he might be far away. Finally, he might go and yet take nothing by his

journey; the exalted Princess would be hard to win; the King's family

pride might defeat itself by making him pitch his hopes and his claims

too high.

On the whole the matter was difficult. The three chief conspirators

showed their conviction of this in their characteristic ways. Countess

Ellenburg became more pious than ever; General Stenovics more silent--at

least more prone to restrict his conversation to grunts; Colonel

Stafnitz more gay and interested in life; he, too, was fishing, and in

his favorite waters, and he had hopes of a big rise.

There was one contingency impossible to overlook. In spite of his

father's orders, the Prince might refuse to go. A knowledge of the state

of the King's health would afford him a very strong excuse, a suspicion

of the plans of the coterie an overpowering motive. The King himself had

foreseen the former danger and feared its effect on his dominant hopes;

by his express command the Prince was kept in ignorance; he had been

amply reassured by Dr. Natcheff. On the latter point the coterie had,

they flattered themselves, nothing to fear. On what ground, then, could

the Prince justify a refusal? His gunners? That would be unwarrantable;

the King would not accept the plea. Did Rastatz's report suggest any

other ground for refusal? If it did, it was one which, to the King's

mind, would seem more unwarrantable still.

There is no big game without its risk; but after full consideration,

Stenovics and Stafnitz decided that the King's wishes were in their

interest, and should be communicated to the Prince without delay. They

had more chances for them than against them. If their game had its

dangers--well, the time might be very short.

In these days Countess Ellenburg made a practice of shutting herself up

in her private rooms for as much as two additional hours every day. She

told the King that she sought a quiet time for meditation and prayer.

King Alexis shrugged his shoulders; meditation wouldn't help matters,

and, in face of Dr. Natcheff's diagnosis of the condition of his heart,

he must confess to a serious doubt even about prayer. He had outlived

his love for the Countess, but to the end he found in her a source of

whimsical amusement; divining, if not her ambitions, at least her

regrets; understanding how these regrets, when they became very acute,

had to be met by an access of piety. Naturally they would be acute now,

in view of Natcheff's diagnosis. He thanked her for her concern, and

bade her by all means go and pray.

What was the stuff of her prayers--the stuff behind the words? No doubt

she prayed for her husband's life. No doubt she prayed for her son's

well-being. Very likely she even prayed that she might not be led into

temptation, or to do anything wrong, by her love for her son; for it was

her theory that the Prince himself would ruin his own chances, and throw

the Crown away. It is not easy always to be sure of conscious

insincerity.

Yet the devil's advocate would have had small difficulty in placing a

fresh face on her prayers, in exhibiting what lay below the words, in

suggesting how it was that she came forth from her secret devotions, not

happy and tranquillized, but with weary eyes, and her narrow lips

close-set in stern self-control. Her prayer that she might do nothing

wrong was a prayer that the Prince might do nothing right. If that

prayer were granted, sin on her part would become superfluous. She

prayed not to be led into temptation--that sounded quite orthodox; was

she to presume to suggest to Heaven the means by which temptation should

be avoided?

Stenovics skilfully humored this shade of hypocrisy. When he spoke to

her, there were in his mouth no such words as plans or schemes or hopes

or ambitions--no, nor claims nor rights. It was always, "the

possibilities we are compelled to contemplate"--"the steps we may be

forced into taking"--"the necessities of mere self-defence"--"the

interests of the kingdom"--"the supreme evil of civil strife"--which

last most respectable phrase meant that it was much better to jockey the

Prince out of his throne than to fight him for it. Colonel Stafnitz bit

his lip and gnawed his mustache during these interviews. The Countess

saw--and hated him. She turned back to Stenovics's church-going phrases

and impassive face. Throughout the whole affair the General probably

never once mentioned to her in plain language the one and only object of

all their hopes and efforts. In the result business took rather longer

to transact--the church-going phrases ran to many syllables; but

concessions must be made to piety. Nor was the Countess so singular; we

should often forego what we like best if we were obliged to define it

accurately and aloud.

After one of these conferences the Countess always prayed; it may be

presumed that she prayed against the misfortune of a cast-iron

terminology. Probably she also urged her views--for prayer is in many

books and mouths more of an argument than a petition--that all marriages

were on one and the same footing, and that Heaven knew naught of a

particular variety named in some countries morganatic. Of the keeping of

contracts, made contrary to the presumed views of Heaven, we are all

aware that Churches--and sometimes States, too--are apt to know or count

nothing.

Such were the woman and her mind. Some pity may go out to her. In the

end, behind all her prayers, and inspiring them--nay, driving her to

her knees in fear--was the conviction that she risked her soul. When she

felt that, she pleaded that it was for her son's sake. Yet there lay

years between her son and man's estate; the power was for some one

during those years.

"If I had the Countess's views and temperament, I should grow

potatoes--and, if possible, grow them worse than my neighbors," said

Colonel Stafnitz. "If I lived dully, I should at least die in peace!"

The King held a very confidential conference. It was to sign his will.

The Countess was there; the little boy, who moved in happy

unconsciousness of all the schemes which centred round him, was sent

into the next room to play with Lepage. Stenovics and Stafnitz were

present as witnesses, and Markart as secretary. The King touched lightly

on his state of health, and went on to express his conviction of the

Prince of Slavna's distinguished consideration for Countess Ellenburg

and fraternal affection for little Alexis. "I go the happier for being

sure of this, gentlemen," he said, to his two counsellors. "But in any

case the Countess and my son are well secured. There will be enough for

you, Charlotte, to live in suitable style, here or abroad, as you

please. My son I wish to stay here and enter my army. I've settled on

him the estate of Dobrava, and he will have means equal to his station.

It's well to have this arranged; from day to day I am in the hands of

God."

As with another King, nothing in life became him like the leaving of it.

There was little more work to do--he had but to wait with courage and

with dignity. The demand now was on what he had in abundance, not on a

faculty which he had always lacked. He signed the document, and bade the

General and Stafnitz witness it. In silence they obeyed him, meaning to

make waste-paper of the thing to which they set their names.

That business done--and the King alone seemed happy in the doing of it

(even Stafnitz had frowned)--the King turned suddenly to Stenovics.

"I should like to see Baroness Dobrava. Pray let her be sent for this

afternoon."

The shock was sudden, but Stenovics's answer came steady, if slow.

"Your Majesty desires her presence?"

"I want to thank her once again, Stenovics. She's done much for us."

"The Baroness is not in Slavna, sir, but I can send for her."

"Not in Slavna? Where is she, then?"

He asked what the whole kingdom knew. Save himself, nobody was ignorant

of Sophy's whereabouts.

"She is on a visit to his Royal Highness at Praslok, sir." Stenovics's

voice was a triumph of neutrality.

"On a visit to the Prince?" Surprise sounded in his voice.

"Madame Zerkovitch is there too, sir," Stenovics added. "The ladies have

been there during the whole of the Prince of Slavna's stay."

The King shot a glance at Countess Ellenburg; she was looking prim and

grim. He looked, also, at Stafnitz, who bit his mustache, without quite

hiding an intentional but apparently irrepressible smile. The King did

not look too grave--and most of his gravity was for Countess Ellenburg.

"Is that--hum--at this moment, quite desirable?" he asked.

His question met with silence; the air of all three intimated that the

matter was purely one for His Majesty. The King sat a moment with a

frown on his brow--the frown which just supplants a smile when a thing,

generally amusing and not unnatural, happens by chance to occur

inconveniently.

Across this silence came a loud voice from the next room--Lepage's

voice. "Take care, take care! You'll upset the flowers, Prince!"

The King started; he looked round at his companions. Then he struck a

hand-bell on the table before him. Lepage appeared.

"Lepage, whom did you address as 'Prince' just now?"

"Count Alexis, sir."

"Why?"

"The Count insisted."

"Don't do it again. It's absurd! Go away!"

A dull red patched Countess Ellenburg's cheeks. Lids brooded low over

the eyes of Stafnitz and of Stenovics. It was a very awkward little

scene--the King's irritation had got the better of him for the moment.

What would the kindred of the exalted Princess have said? The King

turned to Countess Ellenburg and forced a smile.

"The question of reproof is one for you, Countess," he said, frigidly.

"And now about the Baroness--No, I mean, I wanted to ask if my wishes

have been communicated to the Prince of Slavna."

"The Prince has received them, sir. He read them in the presence of my

messenger, and requested leave to send his answer in writing, unless he

might wait on Your Majesty."

"There are reasons why I had better not see him just now. Ask him to

write--but very soon. The matter isn't one for delay." The King rose

from his seat.

"Your Majesty still wishes me to send for Baroness Dobrava?"

The King reflected for a moment, and answered simply: "No."

His brief word broke up the conference--it had already lasted longer

than suave and reassuring Dr. Natcheff would have advised. The men went

away with a smile, all of them--the King, Stenovics, Stafnitz,

round-faced Markart--each smiling according to the quality of each,

their smiles answering to Max von Hollbrandt's shrug of the shoulders.

There are things which bring men to what painful youth was taught to

call the least common denominator. A horse-race does it, a prize-fight,

a cricket-match, a battle, too, in some sort. Equally efficacious, very

often, though it is to be recorded with reluctance, is a strong

flirtation with no proper issue obvious.

The matter was grave, yet all the men laughed. The matter was grave, and

Countess Ellenburg did not laugh. Was that what Stafnitz called her

views and her temperament? In part, no doubt. Besides, men will laugh at

the side-issues of the gravest affairs; it is not generally the case

with woman. Added again to this, perhaps Countess Ellenburg knew more,

or divined more. Among glaring diversity there was, perhaps,

something--an atom--of similarity between her and Sophy--not the

something which refuses, but the something which couples high conditions

with assent. The thousandth chance is to most men negligible; to most

women it is no worse than the tenth; their sense of mathematical odds is

sorely--and sometimes magnificently--imperfect.

It had flashed across Countess Ellenburg's mind that maybe Sophy, too,

played for a big stake--or, rather, lived for it and so would die. The

men had not thought of that; to them, the violent flirtation had its

obvious end and its passing inconvenience. It might delay the Prince's

departure for a while; it might make his marriage more entirely an

affair of duty and of state. With this idea they smiled and shrugged;

the whole business came under the head which, in their thoughts and

their confidential conversations, they would style nonsense.

It was not so with the Countess. Disconcerted by that episode of Lepage

and young Alexis, more moved by the sudden appearance of Baroness

Dobrava as a factor in the game, she returned to prayer.

What now was the form and matter of her prayer? The form must go

unformulated--and the words unconjectured. Yet she prayed so long that

she must have succeeded in putting a good face on her petitions. Without

a plausible plea nobody could have rested on their knees so long.

It is probable that she prayed for others as she prayed for herself--she

prayed that the Prince of Slavna and the Baroness Dobrava might escape

temptation.

Or that, if they fell--? Again it was not for her to dictate to Heaven.

Heaven had its ways of dealing with such sinners.

Yet through all her prayers must have echoed the words: "It's absurd!"

She prayed again, most likely, against being suspected of wishing that

the man who uttered them--her husband--might soon be dead.

The King dead--and the Prince a slave to love--to the idle hours of an

unprofitable love! It was a fine vision, and needed a vast deal of

covering with the veil of prayer.

X

THE SOUND OF A TRUMPET

The Prince of Slavna's answer to the intimation of his father's wishes

was dutiful, courteous, and discreetly diplomatic. The Prince was much

occupied with his drills and other occupations; he availed himself of

Max von Hollbrandt's practised pen--the guest was glad to do his royal

host this favor.

They talked over the sense of the reply; Max then draughted it. The

Prince did no more than amend certain expressions which the young

diplomatist had used. Max wrote that the Prince cordially sympathized

with the King's wishes; the Prince amended to the effect that he

thoroughly understood them. Max wrote that the Prince was prepared

cordially and energetically to co-operate in their realization; the

Prince preferred to be prepared to consider them in a benevolent spirit.

Max suggested that two or three months' postponement of the suggested

journey would not in itself be fatal; the Prince insisted that such a

delay was essential, in order that negotiations might be set on foot to

ensure his being welcomed with due _empressement_. Max added that the

later date would have an incidental advantage, since it would obviate

the necessity of the Prince's interrupting the important labors on which

he was engaged; the Prince said instead that, in his judgment, it was

essential, in the interests of the kingdom, that the task of training

the artillery should not be interfered with by any other object, however

well worthy of consideration that object might be.

In the result, the draught as amended, though not less courteous or

dutiful than Max's original, was noticeably more stiff. Translate them

both into the terse and abrupt speech of every-day life, and one said:

"I'd rather not, please," while the other came at least very near to a

blank "I won't!" Max's was acquiescence, coupled with a prayer for

postponement; the Prince's was postponement first, with an accompanying

assurance of respectful consideration.

Max was not hurt, but he felt a professional disapproval; the Prince had

said more, and shown more of his mind, than was needful; it was throwing

more cards on the table than the rules of the game demanded.

"Mine would have done just as well," he complained to Marie Zerkovitch.

"If mine had been rejected, his could have followed. As it is, he's

wasted one or other of them. Very foolish, since just now time's his

main object!" He did not mean saving time, but protracting it.

Marie did no more than toss her head peevishly. The author of the

original draught persevered.

"Don't you think mine would have been much wiser--to begin with?"

"I don't see much difference. There's little enough truth in either of

them!" she snapped.

Max looked at her with an amused and tolerant smile. He knew quite well

what she meant. He shook his head at her with a humorous twinkle. "Oh,

come, come, don't be exacting, madame! There's a very fair allowance of

truth. Quite half the truth, I should think. He is really very anxious

about the gunners!"

"And about what else?"

Max spread out his hands with a shrug, but passed the question by. "So

much truth, in fact, that it would have served amply for at least two

letters," he remarked, returning to his own special point of complaint.

Marie might well amuse the easy-going, yet observant and curious, young

man; he loved to watch his fellow-creatures under the stress of feelings

from which he himself was free, and found in the opportunities afforded

him in this line the chief interest both of his life and of his

profession.

But Marie had gradually risen to a high, nervous tension. She was no

puritan--puritans were not common in Kravonia, nor had Paris grafted

such a slip onto her nature. Had she thought as the men in the Palace

thought when they smiled, had she thought that and no more, it is

scarcely likely that she would have thus disturbed herself; after all,

such cases are generally treated as in some sense outside the common

rules; exceptional allowances are, in fact, whether properly or not,

made for exceptional situations. Another feeling was in her mind--an

obsession which had come almost wholly to possess her. The fateful

foreboding which had attacked her from the first had now full dominion

over her; its rule was riveted more closely on her spirit day by day, as

day by day the Prince and Sophy drew closer together. Even that Sophy

had once saved his life could now no longer shake Marie's doleful

prepossession. Unusual and unlooked-for things take color from the mind

of the spectator; the strange train of events which had brought Sophy

to Praslok borrowed ominous shadows from a nervous, apprehensive

temperament.

No such gloom brooded over Sophy. She gave herself up to the hour: the

past forgotten, the future never thought of. It was the great time of

her life. Her feelings, while not less spontaneous and fresh, were more

mature and more fully satisfied than when Casimir de Savres poured his

love at her feet. A cry of happiness almost lyrical runs through her

scanty record of these days--there was little leisure for diary or

letters.

Winter was melting into spring, snow dwelled only on the hill-tops, Lake

Talti was unbound and sparkled in the sun; the days grew longer, yet

were far too short. To ride with him to Volseni, to hear the cheers, to

see the love they bore him, to watch him at work, to seem to share the

labor and the love--then to shake off the kindly clinging friends and

take to a mountain-path, or wander, the reins on the horses' necks, by

the margin of the lake, and come home through the late dusk, talking

often, silent often, always together in thought as in bodily

presence--was not this enough? "If I had to die in a month, I should owe

life a tremendous debt already"--that is her own summing up; it is

pleasant to remember.

It would be enough to say--love; enough with a nature ardent as hers.

Yet, with love much else conspired. There was the thought of what she

had done, of the things to which she was a party; there was the sense of

power, the satisfaction of ambition, a promise of more things; there was

the applause of Volseni as well as the devotion of the Prince; there

was, too--it persisted all through her life--the funny, half-childish,

and (to a severe eye) urchin-like pleasure in the feeling that these

were fine doings for Sophy Grouch, of Morpingham in Essex! "Fancy _me_!"

is the indefensibly primitive form in which this delight shows in one of

the few letters bearing date from the Castle of Praslok.

Yet it is possible to find this simple, gracious surprise at Fortune's

fancies worthy of love. Her own courage, her own catching at Fortune's

forelock, seem to have been always unconscious and instinctive. These

she never hints at, nor even begins to analyze. Of her love for the

Prince she speaks once or twice--and once in reference to what she had

felt for Casimir. "I loved him most when he left me, and when he died,"

she writes. "I love him not less now because I love Monseigneur. But I

can love Monseigneur more for having loved Casimir. God bade the dear

dead die, but He bade me live, and death helped to teach me how to do

it." Again she reflects: "How wonderfully everything is _worth

while_--even sorrows!" Following which reflection, in the very next line

(she is writing to Julia Robins), comes the naïve outburst: "I look just

splendid in my sheepskin tunic--and he's given me the sweetest toy of a

revolver; that's in case they ever charge, and try and cut us up behind

our guns!" She is laughing at herself, but the laugh is charged with an

infectious enjoyment. So she lived, loved, and laughed through those

unequalled days, trying to soothe Marie Zerkovitch, bantering Max von

Hollbrandt, giving her masculine mind and her feminine soul wholly to

her Prince. "She was like a singularly able and energetic sunbeam," Max

says quaintly, himself obviously not untouched by her attractions.

The Prince's mind was simple. He was quite sincere about his guns; he

had no wish to go on his travels until they had arrived, and he could

deliver them into the safe custody of his trained and trusty Volsenians,

and of Lukovitch their captain. Less than that was not safety, with

Stenovics in office and Colonel Stafnitz on duty at the capital. But

Marie Zerkovitch was right, too, even though over-exacting, as Max had

told her. The letter to the King held but half the truth, and that half

not the more significant. He could not go from Sophy's side to seek a

wife. The desire of his heart and the delight of his eyes--she was here

in Praslok.

Her charm was not only for his heart and eyes, her fascination not

solely for his passion; on his intellect also she laid her powerful

hold, opening the narrow confines of his mind to broader views, and

softening the rigor of his ideals. He had seen himself only as the stern

master, the just chastiser of a turbulent capital and an unruly

soldiery. But was there not a higher aim? Might he not be loved in the

plains as on the hills, at Slavna as at Volseni?

By himself he could not achieve that; his pride--nay, his

obstinacy--forbade the first step. But what his sensitive dignity

rejected for himself, he could see her sunny graciousness accomplish

without loss of self-respect, naturally, all spontaneously. He was a

soldier; hers were the powers of peace, of that instinctive

statesmanship of the emotions by which hearts are won and kingdoms knit

together by a tie stronger than the sword. Because in his mind's eye he

saw her doing this, the idea at which the men in the Palace had smiled,

and which even Marie Zerkovitch would have accepted as the lesser evil,

never came into his head. In the future years she was to be openly at

his side, doing these things for him and for the land of his love and

labor. Would she not be a better partner than some stranger, to whom he

must go cap in hand, to whom his country would be a place of exile and

his countrymen seem half-barbarians, whose life with him would be one

long tale of forced and unwilling condescension? A pride more subtle

than his father's rose in revolt.

If he could make the King see that! There stood the difficulty. Right in

the way of his darling hope was the one thing on which the King

insisted. The pride of family--the great alliance--the single point

whereon the easy King was an obstacle so formidable! Yet had he

despaired, he would have been no such lover as he was.

His answer had gone to the King; there was no news of its reception yet.

But on the next day, in the evening, great tidings came from Slavna,

forwarded by Zerkovitch, who was in charge of the Prince's affairs

there. The Prince burst eagerly into the dining-room in the tower of

Praslok, where Sophy sat alone. He seemed full of triumphant excitement,

almost boyish in his glee. It is at such moments that hesitations are

forgotten and the last reserves broken down.

"My guns!" he cried. "My guns! They've started on their way. They're due

in Slavna in a month!"

"In a month!" she murmured softly. "Ah, then--"

"Our company will be ready, too. We'll march down to Slavna and meet the

guns!" He laughed. "Oh, I'll be very pleasant to Slavna now--just as you

advise me. We'll meet them with smiles on our faces." He came up to her

and laid his hand on hers. "You've done this for me," he said, smiling

still, yet growing more grave.

"It'll be the end of this wonderful time, of this our time together!"

"Of our time at Praslok--not of our time together. What, won't

Lieutenant Baroness Dobrava march with her battery?"

She smiled doubtfully, gently shaking her head. "Perhaps! But when we

get to Slavna--? Oh, I'm sorry that this time's so nearly done!"

He looked at her gravely for a few moments, making, perhaps, a last

quick calculation--undergoing, perhaps, a last short struggle. But the

Red Star glowed against the pallor of her face; her eyes were gleaming

beacons.

"Neither the guns, nor the men, nor Slavna--no, nor the Crown, when that

time comes--without you!" he said.

She rose slowly, tremblingly, from her chair, and stretched out her

hands in an instinctive protest: "Monseigneur!" Then she clasped her

hands, setting her eyes on his, and whispering again, yet lower:

"Monseigneur!"

"Marie Zerkovitch says Fate sent you to Kravonia. I think she's right.

Fate did--my fate. I think it's fated that we are to be together to the

end, Sophy."

A step creaked on the old stairs. Marie Zerkovitch was coming down from

her room on the floor above. The door of the dining-room stood open, but

neither of them heard the step; they were engrossed, and the sound

passed unheeded.

Standing there with hands still clasped, and eyes still bound to his,

she spoke again--and Marie Zerkovitch stood by the door and heard the

quick yet clear words, herself fascinated, unable to move or speak.

"I've meant nothing of it. I've thought nothing of it. I seem to have

done nothing towards it. It has just come to me." Her tone took on a

touch of entreaty, whether it were to him, or to some unseen power

which ruled her life, and to which she might have to render an account.

"Yet it is welcome?" he asked quietly. She was long in answering; he

waited without impatience, in a confidence devoid of doubt. She seemed

to seek for the whole truth and to give it to him in gravest, fullest

words.

"It is life, Monseigneur," she said. "I can't see life without it now."

He held out his hands, and very slowly she laid hers in them.

"It is enough--and nothing less could have been enough from you to me

and from me to you," he said gently. "Unless we live it together, I

think it can be no life for us now."

The chain which had held Marie Zerkovitch motionless suddenly snapped.

She rushed into the room, and, forgetful of everything in her agitation,

seized the Prince by the arm.

"What do you mean?" she cried. "What do you mean? Are you mad?"

He was very fond of little Marie. He looked down at her now with an

affectionate, indulgent smile.

"Come, you've heard what I said, I suppose--though it wasn't meant for

your ears, you know! Well, then, I mean just what I said, Marie."

"But what do you mean by it?" she persisted in a feverish, almost

childish, excitement. She turned on Sophy, too. "And what do you mean by

it, Sophy?" she cried.

Sophy passed a hand across her brow. A slow smile relieved the enchanted

tension of her face; she seemed to smile in a whimsical surprise at

herself. Her answer to Marie came vague and almost dreamy. "I--I

thought of nothing, dear Marie," she said; then with a sudden low murmur

of delighted laughter she laid her hands in the Prince's again. She had

thought of nothing but of that life together and their love.

"She'll share my life, Marie, and, when the time comes, my throne," the

Prince said softly: he tried to persuade and soothe her with his gentle

tones.

Marie Zerkovitch would not have it. Possessed by her old fear, her old

foreboding, she flung away the arm she held with an angry gesture. "It's

ruin!" she cried. "Ruin, ruin!" Her voice rang out through the old room

and seemed to fill all the Castle of Praslok with its dirgeful note.

"No," said he firmly. "Ruin will not come through me, nor through her.

It may be that ruin--what you call ruin--will come. It may be that I

shall lose my life or my throne." He smiled a little. "Such changes and

chances come as nothing new to a Stefanovitch. I have clever and bold

men against me. Let them try! We'll try, too. But ruin will not be by

her fault, nor through this. And if it were, don't I owe her my life

already? Should I refuse to risk for her the life she has given?" He

dropped his voice to homelier, more familiar tones, and ended, with a

half-laugh: "Come, little friend, you mustn't try to frighten Sergius

Stefanovitch. It's better the House should end than live on in a coward,

you know."

The plea was not perfect--there was wisdom as well as courage in

question. Yet he would have maintained himself to be right in point of

wisdom, too, had Marie pressed him on it. But her force was spent; her

violence ended, and with it her expostulations. But not her terror and

dismay. She threw herself into a chair and covered her face with her

hands, sobbing bitterly.

The Prince gently caressed her shaking shoulder, but he raised his eyes

to Sophy, who had stood quiet through the scene.

"Are you ready for what comes, Sophy?" he asked.

"Monseigneur, I am ready," she said, with head erect and her face set.

But the next instant she broke into a low yet rich and ringing laugh; it

mingled strangely with Marie's sobs, which were gradually dying away,

yet sounded still, an undertone of discord with Sophy's mirth. She

stretched out her hands towards him again, whispering in an amused pity:

"Poor child--she thought that we should be afraid!"

Out from the dusk of the quiet evening came suddenly the blare of a

trumpet, blown from Volseni by a favoring breeze. It sounded every

evening, at nightfall, to warn the herdsmen in the hills of the closing

of the gates, and had so sounded from time beyond man's memory.

The Prince raised his hand to bid her listen.

"In good Volseni there is watch and ward for us!"

The echoes of the blast rang for an instant round the hills.

"And there is watch and ward, and the glad sound of a trumpet, in my

heart, Monseigneur," she said.

The sobs were still, laughter was hushed, the echoes died away. In utter

silence their hands and their eyes met. Only in their hearts love's

clarion rang indomitable and marvellously glad.

XI

M. ZERKOVITCH'S BEDROOM FIRE

Often there are clever brains about us of whose workings we care

nothing, save so far as they serve to the defter moving of our dishes or

the more scientific brushing and folding of our clothes. Humorists and

philosophers have described or conjectured or caricatured the world of

those who wait on us, inviting us to consider how we may appear to the

inward gaze of the eyes which are so obediently cast down before ours or

so dutifully alert to anticipate our orders. As a rule, we decline the

invitation; the task seems at once difficult and unnecessary. Enough to

remember that the owners of the eyes have ears and mouths also! A small

leak, left unstanched, will empty the largest cask at last; it is well

to keep that in mind both in private concerns and in affairs of public

magnitude.

The King's body-servant, Emile Lepage, had been set a-thinking. This was

the result of the various and profuse scoldings which he had undergone

for calling young Count Alexis "Prince." The King's brief, sharp words

at the conference had been elaborated into a reproof both longer and

sterner than his Majesty was wont to trouble himself to administer; he

had been very strong on the utter folly of putting such ideas into the

boy's head. Lepage was pretty clear that the idea had come from the

boy's head into his, but he said nothing more of that. The boy himself

scolded Lepage--first for having been overheard, secondly (and, as

Lepage guessed, after being scolded himself very roundly) for using the

offending title at all. Meekly Lepage bore this cross also--indeed, with

some amusement, and a certain touch of pity for young Alexis, who was

not a prince and obviously could not make out why: in the books a king's

sons were always princes, even though there were (as in those glorious

days there often were) fifty or threescore of them.

Then Countess Ellenburg scolded him: the King's "It's absurd!" was

rankling sorely in her mind. Her scolding was in her heaviest

manner--very religious: she called Heaven to witness that never, by word

or deed, had she done anything to give her boy such a notion. The days

are gone by when Heaven makes overt present answer; nothing happened!

She roundly charged Lepage with fostering the idea for his own purposes;

he wanted to set the Prince of Slavna against his little brother, she

supposed, and to curry favor with the rising sun at the poor child's

cost.

She was very effective, but she angered Lepage almost beyond endurance.

By disposition he was thoroughly good-natured, if sardonic and

impassive; he could not suffer the accusation of injuring the pretty boy

for his own ends; it was both odious and absurd. He snapped back smartly

at her: "I hope nobody will do more to put wrong ideas in his head than

I have done, Madame la Comtesse." In a fury she drove him from the room.

But she had started ever so slightly. Lepage's alert brain jumped at the

signal.

Finally, Stenovics himself had a lecture for poor, much-lectured Lepage.

It was one of the miscalculations to which an over-cautious cunning is

prone. Stenovics was gentle and considerate, but he was very

urgent--urgent, above all, that nothing should be said about the

episode, neither about it, nor about the other reprimands. Silence,

silence, silence was his burden. Lepage thought more and more. It is

better to put up with gossip than to give the idea that the least gossip

would be a serious offence. People gossip without thinking, it's easy

come and gone, easy speaking and easy forgetting; but stringent

injunctions not to talk are apt to make men think. References to the

rising sun, also, may breed reflection in the satellites of a setting

orb. Neither Countess Ellenburg nor General Stenovics had been as well

advised as usual in this essentially trumpery matter.

In short, nervousness had been betrayed. Whence came it? What did it

mean? If it meant anything, could Lepage turn that thing to account? The

King's favorite attendant was no favorite with Countess Ellenburg. For

Lepage, too, the time might be very short! He would not injure the boy,

as the angry mother had believed, or at least suggested; but, without

question of that, there was no harm in a man's looking out for himself;

or if there were, Lepage was clear in thinking that the Countess and the

General were not fit preachers of such a highly exacting gospel.

Lepage concluded that he had something to sell. His wares were a

suspicion and a fact. Selling the suspicion wronged nobody--he would

give no warranty with it--_Caveat emptor_. Selling the fact was

disobedience to the King his master. "Disobedience, yes; injury, no,"

said Lepage with a bit of casuistry. Besides, the King, too, had scolded

him.

Moreover, the Prince of Slavna had always treated Monsieur Emile Lepage

with distinguished consideration. The Bourbon blood, no doubt, stretched

out hands to _la belle France_ in Monsieur Lepage's person.

Something to sell! Who was his buyer? Whose interest could be won by his

suspicion, whose friendship bought with his fact? The ultimate buyer was

plain enough. But Lepage could not go to Praslok, and he did not approve

of correspondence, especially with Colonel Stafnitz in practical control

of the Household. He sought a go-between--and a personal interview. At

least he could take a walk; the servants were not prisoners. Even

conspirators must stop somewhere--on pain of doing their own cooking and

the rest! At a quarter past eight in the evening, having given the King

his dinner and made him comfortable for the next two hours, Lepage

sallied forth and took the road to Slavna. He was very carefully

dressed, wore a flower in his buttonhole, and had dropped a discreet

hint about a lady, in conversation with his peers. If ladies often

demand excuses, they may furnish them too; present seriousness invoked

aid from bygone frivolity.

At ten o'clock he returned, still most spruce and orderly, and with a

well satisfied air about him. He had found a purchaser for his suspicion

and his fact. His pocket was the better lined, and he had received

flattering expressions of gratitude and assurances of favor. He felt

that he had raised a buttress against future assaults of Fortune. He

entered the King's dressing-room in his usual noiseless and unobtrusive

manner. He was not aware that General Stenovics had quitted it just a

quarter of an hour before, bearing in his hand a document which he had

submitted for his Majesty's signature. The King had signed it and

endorsed the cover "_Urgent_."

"Ah, Lepage, where have you been?" asked the King.

"Just to get a little air and drink a glass at the Golden Lion."

"You look gayer than that!" smiled the King. Evidently his anger had

passed; perhaps he wished to show as much to an old servant whom he

liked and valued.

Conscience-stricken--or so appearing--Lepage tore the flower from his

coat. "I beg Your Majesty's pardon. I ought to have removed it before

entering your Majesty's presence. But I was told you wished to retire at

once, sir, so I hurried here immediately."

The King gave a weary yawn. "Yes, I'll go to bed at once, Lepage; and

let me sleep as long as I can. This fag-end of life isn't very amusing."

He passed his hand wearily across his brow. "My head aches. Isn't the

room very close, Lepage? Open the window."

"It has begun to rain, sir."

"Never mind, let's have the rain, too. At least, it's fresh."

Lepage opened a window which looked over the Krath. The King rose:

Lepage hastened to offer his arm, which his Majesty accepted. They went

together to the window. A sudden storm had gathered; rain was pelting

down in big drops.

"It looks like being a rough night," remarked the King.

"I'm afraid it does, sir," Lepage agreed.

"We're lucky to be going to our beds."

"Very, sir," answered Lepage, wondering whose opposite fate his Majesty

was pitying.

"I shouldn't care, even if I were a young man and a sound one, to ride

to Praslok to-night."

"To Praslok, sir?" There was surprise in Lepage's voice. He could not

help it. Luckily it sounded quite natural to the King. It was certainly

not a night to ride five and twenty miles, and into the hills, unless

your business was very urgent.

"Yes, to Praslok. I've had my breath of air--you can shut the window,

Lepage."

The King returned to the fireplace and stood warming himself. Lepage

closed the window, drew the curtains, and came to the middle of the

room, where he stood in respectful readiness--and, underneath that, a

very lively curiosity.

"Yes," said the King slowly, "Captain Markart goes to Praslok

to-night--with a despatch for his Royal Highness, you know. Business,

Lepage, urgent business! Everything must yield to that." The King

enunciated this virtuous maxim as though it had been the rule of his

life. "No time to lose, Lepage, so the Captain goes to-night. But I'm

afraid he'll have a rough ride--very rough."

"I'm afraid so, sir," said Lepage, and added, strictly in his thoughts:

"And so will Monsieur Zerkovitch!"

Captain Markart was entirely of his Majesty's opinion as he set out on

his journey to Praslok. His ride would be rough, dark, and solitary--the

last by Stenovics's order. Markart was not afraid, he was well armed;

but he expected to be very bored, and knew that he would be very wet, by

the time he reached the Castle. He breathed a fervent curse on the

necessities of State, of which the Minister had informed him, as he

buttoned up his heavy cavalry overcoat, and rode across the bridge on to

the main road on the right bank, an hour before midnight.

Going was very heavy, so was the rain, so was the darkness; he and his

horse made a blurred, laboring shape on the murky face of night. But his

orders were to hasten, and he pushed on at a sharp trot and soon covered

his first stage, the five miles to the old wooden bridge, where the road

leaves the course of the Krath, is carried over the river, and strikes

northeast, towards the hills.

At this point he received the first intimation that his journey was not

to be so solitary as he had supposed. When he was half-way across the

bridge, he heard what sounded like an echo of the beat of his horse's

hoofs on the timbers behind him. The thing seemed odd. He halted a

moment to listen. The sound of his horse's hoofs stopped--but the echo

went on. It was no echo, then; he was not the only traveller that way!

He pricked his horse with the spur; regaining the road, he heard the

timbers of the bridge still sounding. He touched his horse again and

went forward briskly. He had no reason to associate his

fellow-traveller's errand with his own, but he was sure that when

General Stenovics ordered despatch, he would not be pleased to learn

that his messenger had been passed by another wayfarer on the road.

But the stranger, too, was in a hurry, it seemed; Markart could not

shake him off. On the contrary, he drew nearer. The road was still broad

and good. Markart tried a canter. The stranger broke into a canter. "At

any rate, it makes for good time," thought Markart, smiling uneasily. In

fact, the two found themselves drawn into a sort of race. On they went,

covering the miles at a quick, sustained trot, exhilarating to the men,

but rather a strain on their horses. Both were well mounted. Markart

wondered who the stranger with such a good horse was. He turned his

head, but could see only the same sort of blur as he himself made; part

of the blur, however, seemed of a lighter color than his dark overcoat

and bay horse produced.

Markart's horse pecked; his rider awoke to the fact that he was pounding

his mount without doing much good to himself. He would see whether the

unknown meant to pass him or was content to keep on equal terms. His

pace fell to a gentle trot--so did the stranger's. Markart walked his

horse for half a mile--so did the stranger. Thenceforward they went

easily, each keeping his position, till Markart came to where the road

forked--on the right to Dobrava, on the left to Praslok and Volseni.

Markart drew rein and waited; he might just as well see where the

stranger was going.

The stranger came up--and Markart started violently. The lighter tinge

of the blur was explained. The stranger rode a white horse. It flashed

on Markart that the Prince rode a white charger, and that the animal had

been in Slavna the day before--he had seen it being exercised. He peered

into the darkness, trying to see the man's face; the effort was of no

avail. The stranger came to a stand beside him, and for a few moments

neither moved. Then the stranger turned his horse's head to the left: he

was for Praslok or Volseni, then! Markart followed his example. He knew

why he did not speak to the stranger, but he was wondering why on earth

the stranger did not speak to him. He went on wondering till it occurred

to him that, perhaps, the stranger was in exactly the same state of

mind.

There was no question of cantering, or even of trotting, now. The road

rose steeply; it was loose and founderous from heavy rain; great stones

lay about, dangerous traps for a careless rider. The horses labored. At

the same moment, with the same instinct, Markart and the stranger

dismounted. The next three miles were done on foot, and there before

them, in deeper black, rose the gate-tower of the Castle of Praslok. The

stranger had fallen a little behind again; now he drew level. They were

almost opposite the Castle.

A dog barked from the stables. Another answered from the Castle. Two

more took up the tune from the stables; the Castle guardian redoubled

his responsive efforts. A man came running out from the stables with a

lantern; a light flashed in the doorway of the Castle. Both Markart and

the stranger came to a stand-still. The man with the lantern raised it

high in the air, to see the faces of the travellers.

They saw each other's faces, too. The first result was to send them into

a fit of laughter--a relief from tension, a recognition of the absurdity

into which their diplomatic caution had led them.

"By the powers, Captain Markart!"

"Monsieur Zerkovitch, by Heaven!"

They laughed again.

"Ah, and we might have had a pleasant ride together!"

"I should have rejoiced in the solace of your conversation!"

But neither asked the other why he had behaved in such a ridiculous

manner.

"And our destination is the same?" asked Zerkovitch. "You stop here at

the Castle?"

"Yes, yes, Monsieur Zerkovitch. And you?"

"Yes, Captain, yes; my journey ends at the Castle."

The men led away their horses, which sorely needed tending, and they

mounted the wooden causeway side by side, both feeling foolish, yet sure

they had done right. In the doorway stood Peter Vassip with his lantern.

"Your business, gentlemen?" he said. It was between two and three in the

morning.

They looked at each other; Zerkovitch was quicker, and with a courteous

gesture invited his companion to take precedence.

"Private and urgent--with his Royal Highness."

"So is mine, Peter," said Zerkovitch.

Markart's humor was touched again; he began to laugh. Zerkovitch

laughed, too, but there was a touch of excitement and nervousness in his

mirth.

"His Royal Highness went to bed an hour ago," said Peter Vassip.

"I'm afraid you must rouse him. My business is immediate," said Markart.

"And I suppose yours is too, Monsieur Zerkovitch?" he added jokingly.

"That it is," said Zerkovitch.

"I'll rouse the Prince. Will you follow me, gentlemen?"

Peter closed and barred the gate, and they followed him through the

court-yard. A couple of sentries were pacing it; for the rest, all was

still. Peter led them into a small room, where a fire was burning, and

left them together. Side by side they stood close to the fire; each

flung away his coat and tried to dry his boots and breeches at the

comforting blaze.

"We must keep this story a secret, or we shall be laughed at by all

Slavna, Monsieur Zerkovitch."

Zerkovitch gave him a sharp glance. "I should think you would report

your discreet conduct to your superiors, Captain. Orders are orders,

secrecy is secrecy, even though it turns out that there was no need for

it."

Markart was about to reply with a joke when the Prince entered. He

greeted both cordially, showing, of course, in Markart's presence, no

surprise at Zerkovitch's arrival.

"There will be rooms and food and wine ready for you, gentlemen, in a

few minutes. Captain Markart, you must rest here for to-night, for your

horse's sake as well as your own. I suppose your business will wait till

the morning?"

"My orders were to lose not a moment in communicating it to you, sir."

"Very well. You're from his Majesty?"

"Yes, sir."

"The King comes first--and I dare say your affair will wait,

Zerkovitch?"

Zerkovitch protested with an eagerness by no means discreet in the

presence of a third party--an aide-de-camp to Stenovics!--"No, sir,

no--it can't wait an--"

The Prince interrupted. "Nonsense, man, nonsense! Now go to your room.

I'll come in and bid you 'Good-night.'" He pushed his over-zealous

friend from the room, calling to Peter Vassip to guide him to the

apartment he was to occupy. Then he came back to Markart. "Now,

Captain!"

Markart took out his letter and presented it with a salute. "Sit down

while I read it," said the Prince, seating himself at the table.

The Prince read his letter, and sat playing with it in his fingers for

half a minute or so. Then a thought seemed to strike him. "Heavens, I

never told Peter to light fires! I hope he has. You're wet--and

Zerkovitch is terribly liable to take cold." He jumped up. "Excuse me;

we have no bells in this old place, you know." He ran out of the room,

closing the door behind him.

Markart sprang to the door. He did not dare to open it, but he listened

to the Prince's footsteps. They sounded to the left--one, two, three,

four, five, six paces. They stopped--a door opened and shut. Markart

made a mental note and went back to the fire, smiling. He thought that

idea of his really would please General Stenovics.

In three minutes the Prince returned. "I did Peter

injustice--Zerkovitch's fire is all right," he said. "And there's a good

one in your room, too, he tells me. And now, Captain Markart, to our

business. You know the contents of the letter you carried?"

"Yes, sir. They were communicated to me, in view of their urgency, and

in case of accident to the letter."

"As a matter of form, repeat the gist to me."

"General Stenovics has to inform your Royal Highness on the King's

behalf that his Majesty sees no need of a personal interview, as his

mind is irrevocably fixed, and he orders your Royal Highness to set out

for Germany within three days from the receipt of this letter. No

pretext is to delay your Royal Highness's departure."

"Perfectly correct, Captain. To-morrow I shall give you an answer

addressed directly to the King. But I wish now to give you a message to

General Stenovics. I shall ask the King for an audience. Unless he

appoints a time within two days, I shall conclude that he has not had

the letter, or--pray mark this--has not enjoyed an opportunity of

considering it independently. General Stenovics must consider what a

responsibility he undertakes if he advises the King to refuse to see his

son. I shall await his Majesty's answer here. That is the message. You

understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Just repeat it. The terms are important."

Markart obeyed. The Prince nodded his head. "You shall have the letter

for the King early in the morning. Now for bed! I'll show you to your

room."

They went out and turned to the left. Markart counted their paces. At

six paces they came to a door--and passed it. Four farther on, the

Prince ushered him into the room where he was to sleep. It was evident

that the Prince had made personal inspection of the state of Monsieur

Zerkovitch's fire!

"Good-night, Captain. By-the-way, the King continues well?"

"Dr. Natcheff says, sir, that he doesn't think his Majesty was ever

better in his life."

The Prince looked at him for just a moment with a reflective smile. "Ah,

and a trustworthy man, Natcheff! Good-night!"

Markart did not see much reason to think that the question, the look,

the smile, and the comment had any significance. But there would be no

harm in submitting the point to General Stenovics. Pondering over this,

he forgot to count the Prince's paces this time. If he had counted, the

sum would have been just four. Monsieur Zerkovitch's fire needed another

royal inspection--it needed it almost till the break of day.

"The King's life hangs by a hair, and your Crown by a thread." That was

the warning which Lepage had given and Zerkovitch had carried through

the night.

XII

JOYFUL OF HEART

The storm had passed; day broke calm and radiant over the Castle of

Praslok; sunshine played caressingly on the lake and on the hills.

Markart had breakfasted and paid a visit to his horse; he wanted to be

off by nine o'clock, and waited only for the Prince's letter. He was

returning from the stables, sniffing the morning air with a vivid

enjoyment of the change of weather, when he saw Sophy coming along the

road. She had been for a walk. Her eyes and cheeks glowed with

exhilaration. She wore her sheepskin tunic, her sheepskin cap with its

red cockade, and her short, blue skirt over high boots. She walked as

though on the clouds of heaven, a wonderful lightness in her tread; the

Red Star signalled the exaltation of her spirit; the glad sound of the

trumpet rang in her heart.

Her cordial greeting to Markart was spiced with raillery, to which he

responded as well as his ignorance allowed; he was uncertain how much

she knew of the real situation. But if his tongue was embarrassed, his

eyes spoke freely. He could not keep them from her face; to him she

seemed a queen of life and joy that glorious morning.

"You've recovered from your fright?" she asked. "Poor Monsieur

Zerkovitch is still sleeping his off, I suppose! Oh, the story's all

over the Castle!"

"It'll be all over the country soon," said Markart with a rueful smile.

"Well, after all, Monsieur Zerkovitch is a journalist, and journalists

don't spare even themselves, you know. And you're not a reticent person,

are you? Don't you remember all the information you gave me once?"

"Ah, on the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris! Much has happened since then,

Baroness."

"Much always happens, if you keep your eyes open," said Sophy.

"If you keep yours open, nothing happens for me but looking at them."

She laughed merrily; a compliment never displeased Sophy, and she could

bear it very downright.

"But if I were to shut my eyes, what would you do then?"

He looked doubtfully at her mocking face; she meant a little more than

the idle words naturally carried.

"I don't think you'll give me the chance of considering, Baroness." He

indicated her costume with a gesture of his hand. "You've entered the

service, I see?"

"Yes, Captain Markart, the King's service. We are brethren--you serve

him, too?"

"I have that honor." Markart flushed under her laughing scrutiny.

"We fight shoulder to shoulder then. Well, not quite. I'm a gunner, you

see."

"Minus your guns, at present!"

"Not for long!" She turned round and swept her arms out towards the lake

and the hills. "It's a day to think of nothing--just to go riding,

riding, riding!" Her laugh rang out in merry longing.

"What prevents you?"

"My military duties, perhaps, Captain," she answered. "You're lucky--you

have a long ride; don't spoil it by thinking!"

"I think? Oh no, Baroness! I only obey my orders."

"And they never make you think?" Her glance was quick at him for an

instant.

"There's danger in thinking too much, even for ladies," he told her.

She looked at him more gravely, for his eyes were on her now with a

kindly, perhaps a remorseful, look.

"You mean that for me?" she asked. "But if I, too, only obey my orders?"

"With all my heart I hope they may lead you into no danger," he said.

"There's only one danger in all the world--losing what you love."

"Not, sometimes, gaining it?" he asked quickly.

"Still, the only danger would be of losing it again."

"There's life, too," he remarked with a shrug.

"Sir, we're soldiers!" she cried in merry reproof.

"That doesn't prevent me from prizing your life, Baroness, in the

interests of a world not too rich in what you contribute to it."

Sophy looked at him, a subtle merriment in her eyes. "I think, Captain

Markart, that, if you were my doctor, you'd advise me to try--a change

of air! Praslok is too exciting, is that it? But I found Slavna--well,

far from relaxing, you know!"

"The Kravonian climate as a whole, Baroness--"

"Oh no, no, that's too much!" she interrupted. Then she said: "It's very

kind of you--yes, I mean that--and it's probably--I don't know--but

probably against your orders. So I thank you. But I can face even the

rigors of Kravonia."

She held out her hand; he bent and kissed it. "In fact, I hadn't the

least right to say it," he confessed. "Not the least from any point of

view. It's your fault, though, Baroness."

"Since I'm party to the crime, I'll keep the secret," she promised with

a decidedly kindly glance. To Sophy, admiration of herself always argued

something good in a man; she had none of that ungracious scorn which

often disfigures the smile of beauty. She gave a little sigh, followed

quickly by a smile.

"We've said all we possibly can to one another, you and I; more than we

could, perhaps! And now--to duty!" She pointed to the door of the

Castle.

The Prince was coming down the wooden causeway. He, too, wore the

Volseni sheepskins. In his hand he carried a sealed letter. Almost at

the same moment a groom led Markart's horse from the stables. The Prince

joined them and, after a bow to Sophy, handed the letter to Markart.

"For his Majesty. And you remember my message to General Stenovics?"

"Accurately, sir."

"Good!" He gave Markart his hand. "Good-bye--a pleasant ride to you,

Captain--pleasanter than last night's." His grave face broke into a

smile.

"I'm not to have Monsieur Zerkovitch's company this time, sir?"

"Why, no, Captain. You see, Zerkovitch left the Castle soon after six

o'clock. Rather a short night, yes, but he was in a hurry."

Sophy burst into a laugh at the dismay on Markart's face. "We neither of

us knew that, Captain Markart, did we?" she cried. "We thought he was

sleeping off the fright you'd given him!"

"Your Royal Highness gives me leave--?" stammered Markart, his eye on

his horse.

"Certainly, Captain. But don't be vexed, there will be no invidious

comparisons. Zerkovitch doesn't propose to report himself to General

Stenovics immediately on his arrival."

Good-natured Markart joined in the laugh at his own expense. "I'm hardly

awake yet; he must be made of iron, that Zerkovitch!"

"Quicksilver!" smiled the Prince. As Markart mounted, he added: "Au

revoir!"

Markart left the two standing side by side--the Prince's serious face

lit up with a rare smile, Sophy's beauty radiant in merriment. His own

face fell as he rode away. "I half wish I was in the other camp," he

grumbled. But Stenovics's power held him--and the fear of Stafnitz. He

went back to a work in which his heart no longer was; for his heart had

felt Sophy's spell.

"You can have had next to no sleep all night, Monseigneur," said Sophy

in reproach mingled with commiseration.

"I don't need it; the sight of your face refreshes me. We must talk.

Zerkovitch brought news."

In low, grave tones he told her the tidings, and the steps which he and

Zerkovitch had taken.

"I understand my father's reasons for keeping me in the dark; he meant

it well, but he was blinded by this idea about my marriage. But I see,

too, how it fitted in with Stenovics's ideas. I think it's war between

us now--and I'm ready."

Sophy was almost dazed. The King's life was not to be relied on for a

week--for a day--no, not for an hour! But she listened attentively.

Zerkovitch had gone back to Slavna on a fresh horse and at top speed; he

would have more than two hours' lead of Markart. His first duty was to

open communications with Lepage and arrange that the valet should send

to him all the information which came to his ears, and any impressions

which he was able to gather in the Palace. Zerkovitch would forward the

reports to Praslok immediately, so long as the Prince remained at the

Castle. But the Prince was persuaded that his father would not refuse to

see him, now that he knew the true state of the case. "My father is

really attached to me," he said, "and if I see him, I'm confident that I

can persuade him of the inexpediency of my leaving the kingdom just now.

A hint of my suspicions with regard to the Countess and Stenovics would

do it; but I'm reluctant to risk giving him such a shock. I think I can

persuade him without."

"But is it safe for you to trust yourself at Slavna--in the Palace? And

alone?"

"I must risk the Palace alone--and I'm not much afraid. Stenovics might

go to war with me, but I don't think he'd favor assassination. And to

Slavna I sha'n't go alone. Our gunners will go with us, Sophy. We have

news of the guns being on the way; there will be nothing strange in my

marching the gunners down to meet them. They're only half-trained, even

in drill, but they're brave fellows. We'll take up our quarters with

them in Suleiman's Tower. I don't fear all Slavna if I hold Suleiman's

Tower with three hundred Volsenians. Stafnitz may do his worst!"

"Yes, I see," she answered, thoughtfully. "I can't come with you to

Suleiman's Tower, though."

"Only if there are signs of danger. Then you and Marie must come; if all

is quiet, you can stay in her house. We can meet often--as often as

possible. For the rest, we must wait."

She saw that they must wait. It was impossible to approach the King on

the matter of Sophy. It cut dead at the heart of his ambition; it would

be a shock as great as the discovery of Countess Ellenburg's ambitions.

It could not be risked.

"But if, under Stenovics's influence, the King does refuse to see you?"

she asked--"Refuses to see you, and repeats his orders?"

The Prince's face grew very grave, but his voice was firm.

"Not even the King--not even my father--can bid me throw away the

inheritance which is mine. The hand would be the King's, but the voice

the voice of Stenovics. I shouldn't obey; they'd have to come to Volseni

and take me."

Sophy's eyes kindled. "Yes, that's right!" she said. "And for to-day?"

"Nothing will happen to-day--unless, by chance, the thing which we now

know may happen any day; and of that we shouldn't hear till evening. And

there's no drill even. I sent the men to their homes on forty-eight

hours' furlough yesterday morning." His face relaxed in a smile. "I

think to-day we can have a holiday, Sophy."

She clapped her hands in glee. "Oh, Monseigneur, a holiday!"

"It may be the last for a long time," he said; "so we must enjoy it."

This day--this holiday which might be the last--passed in a fine

carelessness and a rich joy in living. The cloudless sky and the

glittering waters of Lake Talti were parties to their pleasure, whether

as they rode far along the shore, or sat and ate a simple meal on the

rock-strewn margin. Hopes and fears, dangers and stern resolves, were

forgotten; even of the happier issues which the future promised, or

dangled before their eyes, there was little thought or speech. The blood

of youth flowed briskly, the heart of youth rose high. The grave Prince

joked, jested, and paid his court; Sophy's eyes gleamed with the fun as

not even the most exalted and perilous adventure could make them

sparkle.

"Oh, it's good," she cried--"good to live and see the sun! Monseigneur,

I believe I'm a pagan--a sun-worshipper! When he's good enough to warm

me through, and to make the water glitter for me, and shadows dance in

such a cunning pattern on the hills, then I think I've done something

that he likes, and that he's pleased with me!" She sprang to her feet

and stretched out her hands towards the sun. "In the grave, I believe, I

shall remember the glorious light; my memory of that could surely never

die!"

His was the holiday mood, too. He fell in with her extravagance, meeting

it with banter.

"It's only a lamp," he said, "just a lamp; and it's hung there for the

sole purpose of showing Sophy's eyes. When she's not there, they put it

out--for what's the use of it?"

"They put it out when I'm not there?"

"I've noticed it happen a dozen times of late."

"It lights up again when I come, Monseigneur?"

"Ah, then I forget to look!"

"You get very little sun anyhow, then!"

"I've something so much better."

It is pathetic to read--pathetic that she should have set it down as

though every word of it were precious--set it down as minutely as she

chronicled the details of the critical hours to which fate was soon to

call her.

Yet, was she wrong? Days of idleness are not always the emptiest; life

may justify its halts; our spirits may mount to their sublimest pitch in

hours of play. At least, the temper of that holiday, and her eager

prizing and recording of it, show well the manner of woman that she

was--her passionate love of beauty, her eager stretching out to all that

makes life beautiful, her spirit, sensitive to all around, taking color

from this and that, reflecting back every ray which the bounty of nature

or of man poured upon it, her great faculty of living. She wasted no

days or hours. Ever receiving, ever giving, she spent her sojourn in a

world that for her did much, yet never could do enough, to which she

gave a great love, yet never seemed to herself to be able to give

enough. Perhaps she was not wrong when she called herself a pagan. She

was of the religion of joy; her kindest thought of the grave was that

haply through some chink in its dark walls there might creep one tiny

sunbeam of memory.

They rode home together as the sun was setting--a sun of ruddy gold,

behind it one bright, purple cloud, the sky beyond blue, deepening

almost into black. When Praslok came in sight, she laid her hand on his

with a long-drawn sigh.

"We have been together to-day," she said. "That will be there always.

Yes, the sun and the world were made for us this day--and we have been

worthy."

He pressed her hand. "You were sent to teach me what joy is--the worth

of the world to men who live in it. You're the angel of joy, Sophy.

Before you came, I had missed that lesson."

"I'm very glad"--thus she ends her own record of this day of

glory--"that I've brought joy to Monseigneur. He faces his fight joyful

of heart." And then, with one of her absurd, deplorable, irresistible

lapses into the merest ordinary feminine, she adds: "That red badge is

just the touch my sheepskin cap wanted!"

Oh, Sophy, Sophy, what of that for a final reflection on the eve of

Monseigneur's fight?

XIII

A DELICATE DUTY

There was a stir in Slavna; excitement was gradually growing, not

unmixed with uneasiness; gossip was busy at the Hôtel de Paris and at

the Golden Lion. Men clustered in groups and talked, while their wives

said that they would be better at home, minding their business and

letting politics alone. Knowledge was far to seek; rumors were

plentiful. Dr. Natcheff might be as reassuring as he pleased--but he had

spent the night at the Palace! All was quiet in the city, but news came

of the force that was being raised in Volseni, and the size of the force

lost nothing as the report passed from mouth to mouth. Little as Slavna

loved the Prince, it was not eager to fight him. A certain reaction in

his favor set in. If they did not love him, they held him in sincere

respect; if he meant to fight, then they were not sure that they did!

Baroness Dobrava's name, too, was much on men's lips; stories about

Sophy were bandied to and fro; people began to remember that they had

from the beginning thought her very remarkable--a force to be reckoned

with. The superstitious ideas about her made their first definite

appearance now. She had bewitched the Prince, they said, and the men of

the hills, too; the whole mountain country would rise at her bidding and

sweep down on Slavna in rude warfare and mad bravery. The Sheepskins

would come, following the Red Star!

The citizens of Slavna did not relish the prospect; at the best it would

be very bad for trade; at the worst it would mean blood and death let

loose in the streets. A stern ruler was better than civil war. The

troops of the garrison were no longer such favorites as they had been;

even Captain Hercules subdued his demeanor (which, indeed, had never

quite recovered from the chastisement of the Prince's sword) to a

self-effacing discretion. He, too, in his heart, and in his heavy,

primitive brain, had an uneasy feeling about the witch with the Red

Star; had she not been the beginning of trouble? But for her, Sterkoff's

long knife would have set an end to the whole chapter long ago!

The time was short and the omens doubtful. It was the moment for a bold

stroke, for a forcing game. The waverers must be shown where power lay,

whose was the winning side.

Captain Markart arrived at Slavna at one o'clock. Zerkovitch had used

his start well and reached the city nearly three hours earlier. When

Markart told Stenovics (he reported himself at once to the General) how

he had been outwitted, Stenovics smiled, saying: "I know, and I know

what he has done since he got here. They stole a march on you, but not

on me, Captain. And now--your story!" He listened to Markart's tale with

a frowning brow, and then dismissed him, saying: "You will meet me at

the Palace. We meet the King in conference at four o'clock." But the

General himself went to the Palace long before four, and he and Stafnitz

were closeted with Countess Ellenburg. Lepage, returning from a walk to

the city at two o'clock, saw the General arrive on horseback.

Lieutenant Rastatz saw Lepage arrive--ay, and had seen him set out, and

marked all his goings; but of this Lepage was unconscious. The little

lieutenant was not much of a soldier, but he was an excellent spy.

Lepage had been with Zerkovitch.

The King was confined to his apartments, a suite of six rooms on the

first floor, facing the river. Here he had his own sitting-room,

dressing, and bedrooms. Besides these there were the little cupboard

Lepage slept in, and a spare room, which at present accommodated Dr.

Natcheff. The sixth room was occupied by odds and ends, including the

tackle, rods, and other implements of his Majesty's favorite pastime.

The council was held in the sitting-room. Natcheff and Lepage were not

present, but each was in his own room, ready for any possible call on

his services. Markart was there, first to tell his story and deliver his

letter, secondly in his capacity as secretary to General Stenovics. The

Countess and Stafnitz completed the party.