"I've seen Mr. Williamson," she said, "and he knows me now. But you

don't yet, do you, Lord Dunstanbury? And anyhow, perhaps, you wouldn't

remember."

She had been a slip of a girl when he saw her last, in a print frock,

washing lettuces. With a smile and a deprecatory gesture he confessed

his ignorance and his surprise. "Really, I'm afraid I--I don't. I've

been such a traveller, and meet so many--" An acquaintance with Baroness

Dobrava was among the last with which he would have credited himself--or

perhaps (to speak his true thoughts), charged his reputation.

"Mr. Williamson knew me almost directly--the moment I reminded him of my

mark." She touched her cheek. Dunstanbury looked more closely at her, a

vague recollection stirring in him. Sophy's face was very sad, yet she

smiled just a little as she added: "I remember you so well--and your dog

Lorenzo. I'm Sophy Grouch of Morpingham, and I became Lady Meg's

companion. Now do you remember?"

He stepped quickly up to her, peered into her eyes, and saw the Red

Star.

"Good Heavens!" he said, smiling at her in an almost helpless way.

"Well, that is curious!" he added. "Sophy Grouch! And you are--Baroness

Dobrava?"

"There's nothing much in that," said Sophy. "I'll tell you all about

that soon, if we have time. To-night I can think of nothing but

Monseigneur. Mr. Williamson has extracted the bullet, but I'm afraid

he's very bad. You won't take Mr. Williamson away until--until it's

settled--one way or the other, will you?"

"Neither Basil nor I will leave so long as we can be of the least

service to you," he told her.

With a sudden impulse she put her hands in his. "It's strangely good to

find you here to-night--so strange and so good! It gives me strength,

and I want strength. Oh, my friends are brave men, but you--well,

there's something in home and the same blood, I suppose."

Dunstanbury thought that there was certainly something in having two

Englishmen about, instead of Kravonians only, but such a blunt sentiment

might not be acceptable. He pressed her hands as he released them.

"I rejoice at the chance that brings us here. You can have every

confidence in Basil. He's a first-rate man. But tell me about yourself.

We have time now, haven't we?"

"Really, I suppose we have! Monseigneur has been put to sleep. But I

couldn't sleep. Come, we'll go up on the wall."

They mounted on to the city wall, just by the gate, and leaned against

the mouldering parapets. Below lay Lake Talti in the moonlight, and

beyond it the masses of the mountains. Yet while Sophy talked,

Dunstanbury's eyes seldom left her face; nay, once or twice he caught

himself not listening, but only looking, tracing how she had grown from

Sophy Grouch in her scullery to this. He had never forgotten the strange

girl: once or twice he and Basil had talked of her; he had resented Lady

Meg's brusque and unceremonious dismissal of her protégée; in his

memory, half-overgrown, had lain the mark on Sophy's cheek. Now here she

was, in Kravonia, of all places--Baroness Dobrava, of all people! And

what else, who knew? The train of events which had brought this about

was strange; yet his greater wonder was for the woman herself.

"And here we are!" she ended with a woful smile. "If Monseigneur lives,

I think we shall win. For the moment we can do no more than hold

Volseni; I think we can do that. But presently, when he's better and can

lead us, we shall attack. Down in Slavna they won't like being ruled by

the Countess and Stenovics as much as they expect. Little by little we

shall grow stronger." Her voice rose a little. "At last Monseigneur will

sit firm on his throne," she said. "Then we'll see what we can do for

Kravonia. It's a fine country, and rich, Lord Dunstanbury, and outside

Slavna the people are good material. We shall be able to make it very

different--if Monseigneur lives."

"And if not?" he asked, in a low voice.

"What is it to me except for Monseigneur? If he dies--!" Her hands

thrown wide in a gesture of despair ended her sentence.

If she lived and worked for Kravonia, it was for Monseigneur's sake.

Without him, what was Kravonia to her? Such was her mood; plainly she

took no pains to conceal it from Dunstanbury. The next moment she turned

to him with a smile. "You think I talk strangely, saying: 'We'll do this

and that'? Yes, you must, and it's suddenly become strange to me to say

it--to say it to you, because you've brought back the old things to my

mind, and all this is so out of keeping with the old things--with Sophy

Grouch, and Julia Robins, and Morpingham! But until you came it didn't

seem strange. Everything that has happened since I came to this country

seemed to lead up to it--to bring it about naturally and irresistibly. I

forgot till just now how funny it must sound to you--and how--how bad, I

suppose. Well, you must accustom yourself to Kravonia. It's not Essex,

you know."

"If the King lives?" he asked.

"I shall be with Monseigneur if he lives," she answered.

Yes, it was very strange; yet already, even now--when he had known her

again for half an hour, had seen her and talked to her--gradually and

insidiously it began to seem less strange, less fantastic, more natural.

Dunstanbury had to give himself a mental shake to get back to Essex and

to Sophy Grouch. Volseni set old and gray amid the hills, the King whose

breath struggled with his blood for life, the beautiful woman who would

be with the King if and so long as he lived--these were the present

realities he saw in vivid immediate vision; they made the shadows of the

past seem not indeed dim--they kept all their distinctness of outline in

memory--but in their turn fantastic, and in no relation to the actual.

Was that the air of Kravonia working on him? Or was it a woman's voice,

the pallid pride of a woman's face?

"In Slavna they call me a witch," she said, "and tell terrible tales

about this little mark--my Red Star. But here in Volseni they like

me--yes, and I can win over Slavna, too, if I get the opportunity. No, I

sha'n't be a weakness to Monseigneur if he lives."

"You'll be--?"

"His wife?" she interrupted. "Yes." She smiled again--nay, almost

laughed. "That seems worst of all--worse than anything else?"

Dunstanbury allowed himself to smile too. "Well, yes, of course that's

true," he said. "Out of Kravonia, anyhow. What's true in Kravonia I

really don't know yet."

"I suppose it's true in Kravonia too. But what I tell you is

Monseigneur's will about me."

He looked hard at her. "You love him?" he asked.

"As my life, and more," said Sophy, simply.

At last Dunstanbury ceased to look at her; he laid his elbows on the

battlements and stood there, his eyes roaming over the lake in the

valley to the mountains beyond. Sophy left his side, and began to walk

slowly up and down the rugged, uneven, overgrown surface of the walls.

The moon was sinking in the sky; there would be three or four dark hours

before the dawn. A man galloped up to the gate and gave a countersign in

return to a challenge; the heavy gates rolled open; he rode in; another

rode out and cantered off along the road towards Praslok. There was

watch and ward--Volseni was not to be caught napping as Praslok had

been. Whether the King lived or died, his Volsenians were on guard.

Dunstanbury turned his back on the hills and came up to Sophy.

"We Essex folk ought to stand by one another," he said. "It's the merest

chance that has brought me here, but I'm glad of the chance now. And

it's beginning to feel not the least strange. So long as you've need of

help, count me among your soldiers."

"But you oughtn't to mix yourself up--"

"Did you act on that principle when you came to Kravonia?"

With a smile Sophy gave him her hand. "So be it. I accept your

service--for Monseigneur."

"I give it to you," he persisted.

"Yes--and all that is mine I give to Monseigneur," said Sophy.

Any man who meets, or after an interval of time meets again, an

attractive woman, only to find that her thoughts are pre-empted and

totally preoccupied, suffers an annoyance not the less real because he

sees the absurdity of it; it is to find shut a gate which with better

luck might have been open. The unusual circumstances of his new

encounter with Sophy did not save Dunstanbury from this common form of

chagrin; the tragic element in her situation gave it a rather uncommon

flavor. He would fain have appeared as the knight-errant to rescue such

beauty in such distress; but the nature of the distress did not seem

favorable to the proper romantic sequel.

He made his offer of service to her; she assigned him to the service of

Monseigneur! He laughed at his own annoyance--and determined to serve

Monseigneur as well as he could. At the same time, while conceding most

amply--nay, even feeling--Monseigneur's excuse, he could not admire his

policy in the choice of a bride. That was doubtless a sample of how

things were done in Kravonia! He lived to feel the excuse more

strongly--and to pronounce the judgment with greater hesitation.

Sophy had given him her hand again as she accepted his offer in

Monseigneur's name.--He had not yet released it when she was called from

the street below in a woman's voice--a voice full of haste and alarm.

"Marie Zerkovitch calls me! I must go at once," she said. "I expect

Monseigneur is awake." She hurried off with a nod of farewell.

Dunstanbury stayed a little while on the wall, smoking a cigarette, and

then went down into the street. The door of the guard-house was shut;

all was very quiet as he passed along to the market-place where the inn

was situated. He went up to his room overlooking the street, and, taking

off his coat only, flung himself on the bed. He was minded thus to await

Basil Williamson's return with news of the King. But the excitement of

the day had wearied him; in ten minutes he was sound asleep.

He was aroused by Basil Williamson's hand on his shoulder. The young

doctor, a slim-built, dark, wiry fellow, looked very weary and sad.

"How has it gone?" asked Dunstanbury, sitting up.

"It's been a terrible night. I'm glad you've had some sleep. He awoke

after an hour; the hemorrhage had set in again. I had to tell him it was

a thousand to one against him. He sent for her, and made me leave them

alone together. There was only one other room, and I waited there with a

little woman--a Madame Zerkovitch--who cried terribly. Then he sent for

Lukovitch, who seems to be the chief man in the place. Presently

Lukovitch went away, and I went back to the King. I found him terribly

exhausted; she was there, sitting by him and whispering to him now and

then; she seemed calm. Presently Lukovitch came back; the Zerkovitches

and the German man came too. They all came in--the King would not hear

my objections--and with them came a priest. And then and there the King

married her! She spoke to nobody except to me before the service began,

and then she only said: 'Monseigneur wishes it.' I waited till the

service was done, but I could bear no more. I went outside while they

shrived him. But I was called back hurriedly. Then the end came very

soon--in less than half an hour. He sent everybody away except her and

me, and when I had done all that was possible, I went as far off as I

could--into the corner of the room. I came back at a call from her just

before he died. The man was looking extraordinarily happy, Dunstanbury."

"They were married?"

"Oh yes. It's all right, I suppose--not that it seems to matter much

now, does it? Put on your coat and come to the window. You'll see a

sight you'll remember, I think."

Together they went to the window. The sun had risen from behind the

mountains and flooded the city with light; the morning air was crisp and

fragrant. The market-place was thronged with people--men in line in

front, women, girls, and boys in a mass behind. They were all absolutely

quiet and silent. Opposite where they were was a raised platform of

wood, reached by steps from the ground; it was a rostrum for the use of

those who sold goods by auction in the market. A board on trestles had

been laid on this, and on the board was stretched the body of the King.

At his feet stood Lukovitch; behind were Max von Hollbrandt, Zerkovitch,

and Marie. At the King's head stood Sophy, and Peter Vassip knelt on the

ground beside her. She stood like a statue, white and still; but

Dunstanbury could see the Red Star glowing.

Lukovitch seemed to have been speaking, although the sound of his voice

had not reached them through the closed window of the topmost room in

the inn. He spoke again now--not loudly, but in a very clear voice.

"The King lies dead through treachery," he said. "In Slavna the German

woman rules, and her son, and the men who killed the King. Will you have

them to rule over you, men of Volseni?"

A shout of "No!" rang out, followed again by absolute silence. Lukovitch

drew the curved sword that he wore and raised it in the air. All the

armed men followed his example; the rest, with the women and young

people, raised their right hands. It was their custom in calling Heaven

to witness.

"God hears us!" said Lukovitch, and all the people repeated the words

after him.

Dunstanbury whispered to Basil: "Do they mean to fight?" An eagerness

stirred in his voice.

"Listen! He's speaking again."

"Whom then will you have for your King, men of Volseni?" asked

Lukovitch. "There is one on whose finger the King has put the silver

ring of the Bailiffs of Volseni. With his own hand he set it there

before he died--he set it there when he made her his Queen, as you have

heard. Will you have the Bailiff of Volseni for your King?"

A great shout of "Yes!" answered him.

"You will have Sophia for your King?"

"Sophia for our King!" they cried.

Lukovitch raised his sword again; all raised swords or hands. The solemn

words "God hears us!" were spoken from every mouth. Lukovitch turned to

Sophy and handed his drawn sword to her. She took it. Then she knelt

down and kissed the King's lips. Rising to her feet again, she stood for

a moment silent, looking over the thronged market-square; yet she seemed

hardly to see; her eyes were vacant. At last she raised the sword to her

lips, kissed it, and then held it high in the air.

"It was Monseigneur's wish. Let us avenge him! God hears me!"

"God hears you!" came all the voices.

The ceremony was finished. Six men took up the board on which the King

lay, carried it down from the rostrum, and along the street to the

guard-house. Sophy followed, and her friends walked after her. Still she

seemed as though in a dream; her voice had sounded absent, almost

unconscious. She was pale as death, save for the Red Star.

Following her dead, she passed out of sight. Immediately the crowd began

to disperse, though most of the men with arms gathered round Lukovitch

and seemed to await his orders.

Basil Williamson moved away from the window with a heavy sigh and a

gesture of dejection.

"I wish we could get her safe out of it," he said. "Isn't it wonderful,

her being here?"

"Yes--but I'd forgotten that." Dunstanbury was still by the window; he

had been thinking that his service now would not be to Monseigneur. Yet

no doubt Basil had mentioned the wisest form of service. Sophy's own few

words--the words for which she cited Heaven's witness--hinted at

another.

But Basil had recalled his mind to the marvel. Moved as he had been by

his talk with Sophy, and even more by the scene which had just been

enacted before his eyes, his face lit up with a smile as he looked

across to Basil.

"Yes, old fellow, wonderful! Sophy Grouch! Queen of Kravonia! It beats

Macbeth hollow!"

"It's pretty nearly as dreary!" said Basil, with a discontented grunt.

"I find it pretty nearly as exciting," Dunstanbury said. "And I hope for

a happier ending. Meanwhile"--he buckled the leather belt which held

his revolver round his waist--"I'm for some breakfast, and then I shall

go and ask that tall fellow who did all the talking if there's anything

I can do for King Sophia. By Jove! wouldn't Cousin Meg open her eyes?"

"You'll end by getting yourself stuck up against the wall and shot,"

Basil grumbled.

"If I do, I'm quite sure of one thing, old fellow--and that is that your

wooden old mug will be next in the line, or thereabouts."

"I say, Dunstanbury, I wish I could have saved him!"

"So do I. Did you notice her face?"

Williamson gave a scornful toss of his head.

"Well, yes, I was an ass to ask that!" Dunstanbury admitted, candidly.

It would certainly not have been easy to avoid noticing Sophy's face.

At six o'clock that morning Max von Hollbrandt took horse for Slavna.

His diplomatic character at once made it proper for him to rejoin his

Legation and enabled him to act as a messenger with safety to himself.

He carried the tidings of the death of the King and of the

proclamation--of Sophy. There was no concealment. Volseni's defiance to

Slavna was open and avowed. Volseni held that there was no true

Stefanovitch left, and cited the will of the last of the Royal House as

warrant for its choice. The gauntlet was thrown down with a royal air.

It was well for Max to get back to his post. The diplomatists in Slavna,

and their chiefs at home, were soon to be busy with the affairs of

Kravonia. Mistitch had struck at the life of even more than his

King--that was to become evident before many days had passed.

XX

THEY HAVE COLDS IN SLAVNA

It is permissible to turn with some relief--although of a kind more

congenial to the cynic than to an admirer of humanity--from the tragedy

of love in Volseni to the comedy of politics which began to develop

itself in Slavna from the hour of the proclamation of young Alexis.

The first result of this auspicious event, following so closely on the

issue of Captain Mistitch's expedition, was to give all the diplomatists

bad colds. Some took to their beds, others went for a change of air; but

one and all had such colds as would certainly prevent them from

accepting royal invitations or being present at State functions. Young

Alexis had a cold, too, and was consequently unable to issue royal

invitations or take his part in State functions. Countess Ellenburg was

even more affected--she had lumbago; and even General Stenovics was

advised to keep quite quiet for a few days.

Only Colonel Stafnitz's health seemed proof against the prevailing

epidemic. He was constantly to be seen about, very busy at the barracks,

very busy at Suleiman's Tower, very gay and cheerful on the terrace of

the Hôtel de Paris. But then he, of course, had been in no way

responsible for recent events. He was a soldier, and had only obeyed

orders; naturally his health was less affected. He was, in fact, in

very good spirits, and in very good temper except when he touched on

poor Captain Hercules's blundering, violent ways. "Not the man for a

delicate mission," he said, decisively, to Captain Markart. The Captain

forbore to remind him how it was that Mistitch had been sent on one. The

way in which the Colonel expressed his opinion made it clear that such a

reminder would not be welcome.

The coterie which had engineered the revolution was set at sixes and

sevens by its success. The destruction of their common enemy was also

the removal of their common interest. Sophy at Volseni did not seem a

peril real enough or near enough to bind them together. Countess

Ellenburg wanted to be Regent; Stenovics was for a Council, with himself

in the chair. Stafnitz thought himself the obvious man to be Commandant

of Slavna; Stenovics would have agreed--only it was necessary to keep an

eye on Volseni! Now if he were to be Commandant, while the Colonel took

the field with a small but picked force! The Colonel screwed up his

mouth at that. "Make Praslok your headquarters, and you'll soon bring

the Sheepskins to their senses," Stenovics advised insidiously. Stafnitz

preferred headquarters in Suleiman's Tower! He was not sure that coming

back from Praslok with a small force, however picked, would be quite as

easy as going there.

In the back of both men's minds there was a bit of news which had just

come to hand. The big guns had been delivered, and were on their way to

Slavna, coming down the Krath in barges. They were consigned to the

Commandant. Who was that important officer now to be?

When thieves fall out, honest men come by their own. The venerable

saying involves one postulate--that there shall be honest men to do it.

In high places in Slavna this seemed to be a difficulty, and it is not

so certain that Kravonia's two great neighbors, to east and west, quite

filled the gap. These Powers were exchanging views now. They were

mightily shocked at the way Kravonia had been going on. Their Ministers

had worse colds than any of the other Ministers, and their Press had a

great deal to say about civilization and such like topics. Kravonia was

a rich country, and its geographical position was important. The history

of the world seems to show that the standard of civilization and

morality demanded of a country depends largely on its richness and the

importance of its geographical position.

The neighbor on the west had plenty of mountains, but wanted some

fertile plains. The neighbor on the east had fertile plains adjacent to

the Kravonian frontier, and would like to hold the mountain line as a

protection to them. A far-seeing statesman would have discerned how

important correct behavior was to the interests of Kravonia! The great

neighbors began to move in the matter, but they moved slowly. They had

to see that their own keen sense of morality was not opposed to the keen

sense of morality of other great nations. The right to feel specially

outraged is a matter for diplomatic negotiations, often, no doubt, of

great delicacy.

So in the mean time Slavna was left to its own devices for a little

longer--to amuse itself in its light-hearted, unremorseful, extremely

unconscientious way, and to frown and shake a distant fist at grim,

gray, sad little Volseni in the hills. With the stern and faithful band

who mourned the dead Prince neither Stenovics nor Stafnitz seemed for

the moment inclined to try conclusions, though each would have been very

glad to see the other undertake the enterprise. In a military regard,

moreover, they were right. The obvious thing, if Sophy still held out,

was to wait for the big guns. When once these were in position, the old

battlements of Volseni could stand scarcely longer than the walls of

Jericho. And the guns were at the head of navigation on the Krath now,

waiting for an escort to convoy them to Slavna. Max von Hollbrandt--too

insignificant a person to feel called upon to have a cold--moved about

Slavna, much amused with the situation, and highly gratified that the

fruit which the coterie had plucked looked like turning bitter in their

mouths.

Within the Palace on the river-bank young Alexis was strutting his brief

hour, vastly pleased; but Countess Ellenburg was at her prayers again,

praying rather indiscriminately against everybody who might be

dangerous--against Sophy at Volseni; against the big neighbors, whose

designs began to be whispered; against Stenovics, who was fighting so

hard for himself that he gave little heed to her or to her dignity;

against Stafnitz, who might leave her the dignity, such as it was, but

certainly, if he established his own supremacy, would not leave her a

shred of power. Perhaps there were spectres also against whose accusing

shades she raised her petition--the man she had deluded, the man she had

helped to kill; but that theme seems too dark for the comedy of Slavna

in these days. The most practical step she took, so far as this world

goes, was to send a very solid sum of money to a bank in Dresden: it was

not the first remittance she had made from Slavna.

Matters stood thus--young Alexis having been on the throne in Slavna,

and Sophy in Volseni, for one week--when Lepage ventured out from

Zerkovitch's sheltering roof. He had suffered from a chill by no means

purely diplomatic; but, apart from that, he had been in no hurry to show

himself; he feared to see Rastatz's rat-face peering for him. But all

was quiet. Sterkoff and Rastatz were busy with their Colonel in

Suleiman's Tower. In fact, nobody took any notice of Lepage; his secret,

once so vital, was now gossip of the market-place. He was secure--but he

was also out of a situation.

He walked somewhat forlornly into St. Michael's Square, and as luck

would have it--Lepage thought it very bad luck--the first man he ran

against was Captain Markart. Uneasy in his conscience, Lepage tried to

evade the encounter, but the Captain was of another mind. His head was

sound again, and, on cool reflection, he was glad to have slept through

the events of what Stenovics's proclamation had styled "the auspicious

day." He seized little Lepage by the arm, greeted him with cordiality,

and carried him off to drink at the Golden Lion. Without imputing any

serious lack of sobriety to his companion, Lepage thought that this

refreshment was not the first of which the good-humored Captain had

partaken that forenoon; his manner was so very cordial, his talk so very

free.

"Well, here we are!" he said. "We did our best, you and I, Lepage; our

consciences are clear. As loyal subjects, we have now to accept the

existing régime."

"What is it?" asked Lepage. "I've been in-doors a week."

"It's Alexis--still Alexis! Long live Alexis!" said Markart, with a

laugh. "You surely don't take Baroness Dobrava into account?"

"I just wanted to know," said Lepage, drinking thoughtfully.

"And--er--Captain--behind Alexis? Guiding the youthful King? Countess

Ellenburg?"

"No doubt, no doubt. Behind him his very pious mother, Lepage."

"And behind her?" persisted Lepage.

Markart laughed, but cast a glance round and shook his head.

"Come, come, Captain, don't leave an old friend in the dark--just where

information would be useful!"

"An old friend! Oh, when I remember my aching head! You think me very

forgiving, Monsieur Lepage."

"If you knew the night I spent, you'd forgive me anything," said Lepage,

with a shudder of reminiscence.

"Ah, well," said Markart, after another draught, "I'm a soldier--I shall

obey my orders."

"Perfect, Captain! And who will give them to you, do you think?"

"That's exactly what I'm waiting to see. Oh, I've turned prudent! No

more adventures for me!"

"I'm quite of your mind; but it's so difficult to be prudent when one

doesn't know which is the strongest side."

"You wouldn't go to Volseni?" laughed Markart.

"Perhaps not; but there are difficulties nearer home. If you went out of

this door and turned to the left, you would come to the offices of the

Council of Ministers. If you turned to the right, and thence to the

right again, and on to the north wall, you would come, Captain, to

Suleiman's Tower. Now, as I understand, Colonel Stafnitz--"

"Is at the Tower, and the General at the offices, eh?"

"Precisely. Which turn do you mean to take?"

Markart looked round again. "I shall sit here for a bit longer," he

said. He finished his liquor, thereby, perhaps, adding just the touch of

openness lacking to his advice, and, leaning forward, touched Lepage on

the arm.

"Do you remember the Prince's guns--the guns for which he bartered

Captain Hercules?"

"Ay, well!" said Lepage.

"They're on the river, up at Kolskoï, now. I should keep my eye on them!

They're to be brought to Slavna. Who do you think'll bring them? Keep

your eye on that!"

"They're both scoundrels," said Lepage, rising to go.

Markart shrugged his shoulders. "The fruit lies on the ground for the

man who can pick it up! Why not? There's nobody who's got any right to

it now."

He expressed exactly the view of the two great neighbors, though by no

means in the language which their official communications adopted.

Stenovics knew their views very well. He had also received a pretty

plain intimation from Stafnitz that the Colonel considered the escorting

of the guns to Slavna as a purely military task, appertaining not to the

Ministry of State, but to the officer commanding the garrison in the

capital. Stafnitz was that officer, and he proposed himself to go to

Kolskoï. Suleiman's Tower, he added, would be left in the trustworthy

hands of Captain Sterkoff. Again Stenovics fully understood; indeed, the

Colonel was almost brutally candid. His letter was nothing less than

plain word that power lay with the sword, and that the sword was in his

own hand. Stenovics had got rid of King Sergius only to fall under the

rule of Dictator Stafnitz! Was that to be the end of it?

Stenovics preferred any other issue. The ideal thing was his own rule in

the name of young Alexis, with such diplomatic honoring and humoring of

Countess Ellenburg as might prove necessary. That was plainly impossible

so long as Stafnitz was master of the army; it would become finally

hopeless if Sterkoff held Suleiman's Tower till Stafnitz brought the

guns to Slavna. What, then, was Stenovics's alternative? For he was not

yet brought to giving up the game as totally lost. His name stood high,

though his real power tottered on a most insecure foundation. He could

get good terms for his assistance: there was time to make friends with

the mammon of unrighteousness.

Privately, as became invalids, without the knowledge of any one outside

their confidential _entourage_, the representatives of the two great

neighbors received General Stenovics. They are believed to have

convinced him that, in the event of any further disorders in Kravonia,

intervention could not be avoided; troops were on either frontier, ready

for such an emergency; a joint occupation would be forced on the Allies.

With a great deal of sorrow, no doubt, the General felt himself driven

to accept this conclusion.

He at once requested Stafnitz to fetch the guns to Slavna; he left the

Colonel full discretion in the matter. His only desire was to insure the

tranquillity of the capital, and to show Volseni how hopeless it was to

maintain the fanciful and absurd claims of Baroness Dobrava. The

representatives, it must be supposed, approved this attitude, and wished

the General all success; at a later date his efforts to secure order,

and to avoid the inevitable but regrettable result of any new

disturbance, were handsomely acknowledged by both Powers. General

Stenovics had not Stafnitz's nerve and dash, but he was a man of

considerable resource.

A man of good feeling, too, to judge from another step he took--whether

with the cognizance of the representatives or entirely of his own motion

has never become known. He waited till Colonel Stafnitz, who returned a

civil and almost effusive reply to his communication, had set off to

fetch the guns--which, as has been seen, had been unloaded from the

railway and lay at Kolskoï, three days' journey up the Krath; then he

entered into communication with Volseni. He sent Volseni a private and

friendly warning. What was the use of Volseni holding out when the big

guns were coming? It could mean only hopeless resistance, more disorder,

more blood-shed. Let Volseni and the lady whose claims it supported

consider that, be warned in time, and acknowledge King Alexis!

This letter he addressed to Zerkovitch. There were insuperable

diplomatic difficulties in the way of addressing it to Sophy directly.

"Madam I may not call you, and Mistress I am loath to call you," said

Queen Elizabeth to the Archbishop's wife: it was just a case of that

sort of difficulty. He could not call her Queen of Kravonia, and she

would be offended if he called her Baroness Dobrava. So the letter went

to Zerkovitch, and it went by the hand of one of Zerkovitch's

friends--so anxious was the General to be as friendly and conciliatory

as circumstances permitted.

Much to his surprise, considerably to his alarm, Lepage was sent for to

the General's private residence on the evening of the day on which

Colonel Stafnitz set out for Kolskoï to fetch the guns.

Stenovics greeted him cordially, smoothed away his apprehension,

acquainted him with the nature of his mission and with the gist of the

letter which he was to carry. Stenovics seemed more placid to-night than

for some time back--possibly because he had got Stafnitz quietly out of

Slavna.

"Beg Monsieur Zerkovitch to give the letter to Baroness Dobrava (he

called her that to Lepage) as soon as possible, and to urge her to

listen to it. Add that we shall be ready to treat her with every

consideration--any title in reason, and any provision in reason, too.

It's all in my letter, but repeat it on my behalf, Lepage."

"I shouldn't think she'd take either title or money, General," said

Lepage, bluntly.

"You think she's disinterested? No doubt, no doubt! She'll be the more

ready to see the uselessness of prolonging her present attitude." He

grew almost vehement, as he laid his hand on a large map which was

spread out on the table in front of him. "Look here, Lepage. This is

Monday. By Wednesday evening Colonel Stafnitz will be at Kolskoï--here!"

He put his finger by the spot. "On Thursday morning he'll start back.

The barges travel well, and--yes--I think he'll have his guns here by

Sunday; less than a week from now! Yes, on Thursday night he ought to

reach Evena, on Friday Rapska, on Saturday the lock at Miklevni. Yes, on

Saturday the lock at Miklevni! That would bring him here on Sunday. Yes,

the lock at Miklevni on Saturday, I think." He looked up at Lepage

almost imploringly. "If she hesitates, show her that. They're bound to

be here in less than a week!"

Lepage cocked his head on one side and looked at the Minister

thoughtfully. It all sounded very convincing. Colonel Stafnitz would be

at the lock at Miklevni on Saturday, and on Sunday with the guns at

Slavna. And, of course, arduous though the transport would be, they

could be before Volseni in two or three days more. It was really no use

resisting!

Stenovics passed a purse over to Lepage. "For your necessary expenses,"

he said. Lepage took up the purse, which felt well filled, and pocketed

it. "The Baroness mayn't fully appreciate what I've been saying," added

Stenovics. "But Lukovitch knows every inch of the river--he'll make it

quite plain, if she asks him about it. And present her with my sincere

respects and sympathy--my sympathy with her as a private person, of

course. You mustn't commit me in any way, Lepage."

"I think," said Lepage, "that you're capable of looking after that

department yourself, General. But aren't you making the Colonel go a

little too fast?"

"No, no; the barges will do about that."

"But he has a large force to move, I suppose?"

"Oh, dear, no! A large force? No, no! Only a company--just about a

hundred strong, Lepage." He rose. "Just about a hundred, I think."

"Ah, then he might keep time!" Lepage agreed, still very thoughtfully.

"You'll start at once?" the General asked.

"Within an hour."

"That's right. We must run no unnecessary risks; delay might mean new

troubles."

He held out his hand and shook Lepage's warmly. "You must believe that I

respect and share your grief at the King's death."

"Which King, General?"

"Oh! oh! King Alexis, of course! We must listen to the voice of the

nation. Our new King lives and reigns. The voice of the nation, Lepage!"

"Ah!" said Lepage, dryly. "I'd been suspecting some ventriloquists!"

General Stenovics honored the sally with a broad smile. He thought the

representatives with colds would be amused if he repeated it. The pat on

the shoulder which he gave Lepage was a congratulation. "The animal is

so very inarticulate of itself," he said.

XXI

ON SATURDAY AT MIKLEVNI!

Though not remote in distance, yet Volseni was apart and isolated from

all that was happening. Not only was nothing known of the two great

neighbors--nothing reached men in Volseni of the state of affairs in

Slavna itself. They did not know that the thieves were quarrelling about

the plunder, nor that the diplomatists had taken cold; they had not

bethought them of how the art of the ventriloquists would be at work.

They knew only that young Alexis reigned in Slavna by reason of their

King's murder and against the will of him who was dead; only that they

had chosen Sophia for their Queen because she had been the dead King's

wife and his chosen successor.

All the men who could be spared from labor came into the city; they

collected what few horses they could; they filled their little fortress

with provisions. They could not go to Slavna, but they awaited with

confidence the day when Slavna should dare to move against them into the

hills. Slavna had never been able to beat them in their own hills yet;

the bolder spirits even implored Lukovitch to lead them down in a raid

on the plains.

Lukovitch would sanction no more than a scouting party, to see whether

any movement were in progress from the other side. Peter Vassip rode

down with his men to within a few miles of Slavna. For result of the

expedition he brought back the news of the guns: the great guns, rumor

said, had reached Kravonia and were to be in Slavna in a week.

The rank and file hardly understood what that meant; anger that their

destined and darling guns should fall into hostile hands was the feeling

uppermost. But the tidings struck their leaders home to the heart.

Lukovitch knew what it meant. Dunstanbury, who had served three years in

the army at home, knew very well. Covered by such a force as Stafnitz

could bring up, the guns could pound Volseni to pieces--and Volseni

could strike back not a single blow.

"And it's all through her that the guns are here at all!" said

Zerkovitch, with a sigh for the irony of it.

Dunstanbury laid his hand on Lukovitch's shoulder. "It's no use," he

said. "We must tell her so, and we must make the men understand. She

can't let them have their homes battered to pieces--the town with the

women and children in it--and all for nothing!"

"We can't desert her," Lukovitch protested.

"No; we must get her safely away, and then submit."

Since Dunstanbury had offered his services to Sophy, he had assumed a

leading part. His military training and his knowledge of the world gave

him an influence over the rude, simple men. Lukovitch looked to him for

guidance; he had much to say in the primitive preparations for defence.

But now he declared defence to be impossible.

"Who'll tell her so?" asked Basil Williamson.

"We must get her across the frontier," said Dunstanbury. "There--by St.

Peter's Pass--the way we came, Basil. It's an easy journey, and I don't

suppose they'll try to intercept us. You can send twenty or thirty

well-mounted men with us, can't you, Lukovitch? A small party well

mounted is what we shall want."

Lukovitch waved his hands sadly. "With the guns against us it would be a

mere massacre! If it must be, let it be as you say, my lord." His heart

was very heavy; after generations of defiance, Volseni must bow to

Slavna, and his dead Lord's will go for nothing! All this was the doing

of the great guns.

Dunstanbury's argument was sound, but he argued from his heart as well

as his head. He was convinced that the best service he could render to

Sophy was to get her safely out of the country; his heart urged that her

safety was the one and only thing to consider. As she went to and fro

among them now, pale and silent, yet always accessible, always ready to

listen, to consider, and to answer, she moved him with an infinite pity

and a growing attraction. Her life was as though dead or frozen; it

seemed to him as though all Kravonia must be to her the tomb of him

whose grave in the little hill-side church of Volseni she visited so

often. An ardent and overpowering desire rose in him to rescue her, to

drag her forth from these dim cold shades into the sunlight of life

again. Then the spell of this frozen grief might be broken; then should

her drooping glories revive and bloom again. Kravonia and who ruled

there--ay, in his heart, even the fate of the gallant little city which

harbored them, and whose interest he pleaded--were nothing to him beside

Sophy. On her his thoughts were centred.

Sophy's own mind in these days can be gathered only from what others

saw. She made no record of it. Fallen in an hour from heights of love

and hope and exaltation, she lay stunned in the abyss. In intellect calm

and collected, she seems to have been as one numbed in feeling, too

maimed for pain, suffering as though from a mortification of the heart.

The simple men and women of Volseni looked on her with awe, and

chattered fearfully of the Red Star: how that its wearer had been

predestined to high enterprise, but foredoomed to mighty reverses of

fortune. Amidst all their pity for her, they spoke of the Evil Eye; some

whispered that she had come to bring ruin on Volseni: had not the man

who loved her lost both Crown and life?

And it was she through whom the guns had come! The meaning of the guns

had spread now to every hearth; what had once been hailed as an

achievement second only to her exploit in the Street of the Fountain

served now to point more finely the sharpening fears of superstition.

The men held by her still, but their wives were grumbling at them in

their homes. Was she not, after all, a stranger? Must Volseni lie in the

dust for her sake, for the sake of her who wore that ominous,

inexplicable Star?

Dunstanbury knew all this; Lukovitch hardly sought to deny it, though he

was full of scorn for it; and Marie Zerkovitch had by heart the tales of

many wise old beldams who had prophesied this and that from the first

moment that they saw the Red Star. Surely and not slowly the enthusiasm

which had crowned Sophy was turning into a fear which made the people

shrink from her even while they pitied, even while they did not cease to

love. The hand of heaven was against her and against those who were

near her, said the women. The men still feigned not to hear; had they

not taken Heaven to witness that they would serve her and avenge the

King? Alas, their simple vow was too primitive for days like these--too

primitive for the days of the great guns which lay on the bosom of the

Krath!

Dunstanbury had an interview with Sophy early on the Tuesday morning,

the day after Stafnitz had started for Kolskoï. He put his case with the

bluntness and honesty native to him. In his devotion to her safety he

did not spare her the truth. She listened with the smile devoid of

happiness which her face now wore so often.

"I know it all," she said. "They begin to look differently at me as I

walk through the street--when I go to the church. If I stay here long

enough, they'll all call me a witch! But didn't they swear? And

I--haven't I sworn? Are we to do nothing for Monseigneur's memory?"

"What can we do against the guns? The men can die, and the walls be

tumbled down! And there are the women and children!"

"Yes, I suppose we can do nothing. But it goes to my heart that they

should have Monseigneur's guns."

"Your guns!" Dunstanbury reminded her with a smile of whimsical

sympathy.

"That's what they say in the city, too?" she asked.

"The old hags, who are clever at the weather and other mysteries. And,

of course, Madame Zerkovitch!"

Sophy's smile broadened a little. "Oh, of course, poor little Marie

Zerkovitch!" she exclaimed. "She's been sure I'm a witch ever since

she's known me."

"I want you to come over the frontier with me--and Basil Williamson.

I've some influence, and I can insure your getting through all right."

"And then?"

"Whatever you like. I shall be utterly at your orders."

She leaned her head against the high chair in which she sat, a chair of

old oak, black as her hair; she fixed her profound eyes on his.

"I wish I could stay here--in the little church--with Monseigneur," she

said.

"By Heavens, no!" he cried, startled into sudden and untimely vehemence.

"All my life is there," she went on, paying no heed to his outburst.

"Give life another chance. You're very young."

"You can't count life by years, any more than hours by minutes. You

reckon the journey not by the clock, but by the stages you have passed.

Once before I loved a man--and he was killed in battle. But that was

different. I was very hurt, but I wasn't maimed. I'm maimed now by the

death of Monseigneur."

"You can't bring ruin on these folk, and you can't give yourself up to

Stenovics." He could not trust himself to speak more of her feelings nor

of the future; he came back to the present needs of the case.

"It's true--and yet we swore!" She leaned forward to him. "And

you--aren't you afraid of the Red Star?"

"We Essex men aren't afraid, we haven't enough imagination," he

answered, smiling again.

She threw herself back, crying low: "Ah, if we could strike one

blow--just one--for the oath we swore and for Monseigneur! Then perhaps

I should be content."

"To go with me?"

"Perhaps--if, in striking it, what I should think best didn't come to

me."

"You must run no danger, anyhow," he cried, hastily and eagerly.

"My friend," she said, gently, "for such as I am to-day there's no such

thing as danger. Don't think I value my position here or the title

they've given me, poor men! I have loved titles"--for a moment she

smiled--"and I should have loved this one, if Monseigneur had lived. I

should have been proud as a child of it. If I could have borne it by his

side for even a few weeks, a few days! But now it's barren and

bitter--bitter and barren to me."

He followed the thoughts at which her words hinted; they seemed to him

infinitely piteous.

"Now, as things have fallen out, what am I in this country? A waif and

stray! I belong to nobody, and nobody to me."

"Then come away!" he burst out again.

Her deep eyes were set on his face once more. "Yes, that's the

conclusion," she said, very mournfully. "We Essex people are sensible,

aren't we? And we have no imagination. Did you laugh when you saw me

proclaimed and heard us swear?"

"Good Heavens, no!"

"Then think how my oath and my love call me to strike one blow for

Monseigneur!" She hid her eyes behind her hand for a moment. "Aren't

there fifty--thirty--twenty, who would count their lives well risked?

For what are men's lives given them?"

"There's one at least, if you will have it so," Dunstanbury answered.

There was a knock on the door, and without waiting for a bidding

Zerkovitch came quickly in; Lukovitch was behind, and with him Lepage.

Ten minutes before, the valet had ridden up to the city gates, waving

his handkerchief above his head.

Sophy gave a cry of pleasure at seeing him. "A brave man, who loved his

King and served Monseigneur!" she said, as she darted forward and

clasped his hand.

Zerkovitch was as excited and hurried as ever. He thrust a letter into

her hand. "From Stenovics, madame, for you to read," he said.

She took it, saying to Lepage with a touch of reproach: "Are you General

Stenovics's messenger now, Monsieur Lepage?"

"Read it, madame," said he.

She obeyed, and then signed to Lukovitch to take it, and to Dunstanbury

to read it also. "It's just what you've been saying," she told him with

a faint smile, as she sank back in the high oaken seat.

"I am to add, madame," said Lepage, "that you will be treated with every

consideration--any title in reason, any provision in reason, too."

"So the General's letter says."

"But I was told to repeat it," persisted the little man. He looked round

on them. Lukovitch and Dunstanbury had finished reading the letter and

were listening, too. "If you still hesitated, I was to impress upon you

that the guns would certainly be in Slavna in less than a week--almost

certainly on Sunday. You know the course of the river well, madame?"

"Not very well above Slavna, no."

"In that case, which General Stenovics didn't omit to consider, I was to

remind you that Captain Lukovitch probably knew every inch of it."

"I know it intimately," said Lukovitch. "I spent two years on the

timber-barges of the Krath."

"Then you, sir, will understand that the guns will certainly reach

Slavna not later than Sunday." He paused for a moment, seeming to

collect his memory. "By Wednesday evening Colonel Stafnitz will be at

Kolskoï. On Thursday morning he'll start back. On that evening he ought

to reach Evena, on Friday Rapska." Lukovitch nodded at each name. Lepage

went on methodically. "On Saturday the lock at Miklevni. Yes, on

Saturday the lock at Miklevni!" He paused again and looked straight at

Lukovitch.

"Exactly--the lock at Miklevni," said that officer, with another nod.

"Yes, the lock at Miklevni on Saturday. You see, it's not as if the

Colonel had a large force to move. That might take longer. He'll be able

to move his company as quick as the barges travel."

"The stream's very strong, they travel pretty well," said Lukovitch.

"But a hundred men--it's nothing to move, Captain Lukovitch." He looked

round on them again, and then turned back to Sophy. "That's all my

message, madame," he said.

There was a silence.

"So it's evident the guns will be in Slavna by Sunday," Lepage

concluded.

"If they reach Miklevni on Saturday--any time on Saturday--they will,"

said Lukovitch. "And up here very soon after!"

"The General intimated that also, Captain Lukovitch."

"The General gives us very careful information," observed Dunstanbury,

looking rather puzzled. He was not so well versed in Stenovics's methods

as the rest. Lukovitch smiled broadly, and even Zerkovitch gave a little

laugh.

"How are things in Slavna, Monsieur Lepage?" the last named asked.

Lepage smiled a little, too. "General Stenovics is in full control of

the city--during Colonel Stafnitz's absence, sir," he answered.

"They've quarrelled?" cried Lukovitch.

"Oh no, sir. Possibly General Stenovics is afraid they might." He spoke

again to Sophy. "Madame, do you still blame me for being the General's

messenger?"

"No, Monsieur Lepage; but there's much to consider in the message.

Captain Lukovitch, if Monseigneur had read this message, what would he

have thought the General meant?"

Lukovitch's face was full of excitement as he answered her:

"The Prince wouldn't have cared what General Stenovics meant. He would

have said that the guns would be three days on the river before they

came to Slavna, that the barges would take the best part of an hour to

get through Miklevni lock, that there was good cover within a quarter of

a mile of the lock--"

Sophy leaned forward eagerly. "Yes, yes?" she whispered.

"And that an escort of a hundred men was--well, might be--not enough!"

"And that riding from Volseni--?"

"One might easily be at Miklevni before Colonel Stafnitz and the guns

could arrive there!"

Dunstanbury gave a start, Zerkovitch a chuckle, Lepage a quiet smile.

Sophy rose to her feet; the Star glowed, there was even color in her

cheeks besides.

"If there are fifty, or thirty, or twenty," she said, her eyes set on

Dunstanbury, "who would count their lives well risked, we may yet

strike one blow for Monseigneur and for the guns he loved."

Dunstanbury looked round. "There are three here," he said.

"Four!" called Basil Williamson from the doorway, where he had stood

unobserved.

"Five!" cried Sophy, and, for the first time since Monseigneur died, she

laughed.

"Five times five, and more, if we can get good horses enough!" said

Captain Lukovitch.

"I should like to join you, but I must go back and tell General

Stenovics that you will consider his message, madame," smiled Lepage.

XXII

JEALOUS OF DEATH

In the end they started thirty strong, including Sophy herself. There

were the three Englishmen, Dunstanbury, Basil Williamson, and Henry

Brown, Dunstanbury's servant, an old soldier, a good rider and shot. The

rest were sturdy young men of Volseni, once destined for the ranks of

the Prince of Slavna's artillery; Lukovitch and Peter Vassip led them.

Not a married man was among them, for, to his intense indignation,

Zerkovitch was left behind in command of the city. Sophy would have this

so, and nothing would move her; she would not risk causing Marie

Zerkovitch to weep more and to harbor fresh fears of her. So they rode,

"without encumbrances," as Dunstanbury said, laughing--his spirits rose

inexpressibly as the moment of action came.

Their horses were all that could be mustered in Volseni of a mettle

equal to the dash. The little band paraded in the market-place on Friday

afternoon; there they were joined by Sophy, who had been to pay a last

visit to Monseigneur's grave; she came among them sad, yet seeming more

serene. Her spirit was the happier for striking a blow in Monseigneur's

name. The rest of them were in high feather; the prospect of the

expedition went far to blot out the tragedy of the past and to veil the

threatening face of the future. As dusk fell, they rode out of the city

gate.

Miklevni lies twenty miles up the course of the river from Slavna; but

the river flows there nearly from north to south, turning to the east

only four or five miles above the capital. You ride, then, from Volseni

to Miklevni almost in a straight line, leaving Slavna away on the left.

It is a distance of no more than thirty-five miles or thereabouts, but

the first ten consist of a precipitous and rugged descent by a

bridle-path from the hills to the valley of the Krath. No pace beyond a

walk was possible at any point here, and for the greater part of the way

it was necessary to lead the horses. When once the plain was reached,

there was good going, sometimes over country roads, sometimes over

grass, to Miklevni.

It was plain that the expedition could easily be intercepted by a force

issuing from Slavna and placing itself astride the route; but then they

did not expect a force to issue from Slavna. That would be done only by

the orders of General Stenovics, and Lepage had gone back to Slavna to

tell the General that his message was being considered--very carefully

considered--in Volseni. General Stenovics, if they understood him

rightly, would not move till he heard more. For the rest, risks must be

run. If all went well, they hoped to reach Miklevni before dawn on

Saturday. There they were to lie in wait for Stafnitz--and for the big

guns which were coming down the Krath from Kolskoï to Slavna.

Lukovitch was the guide, and had no lack of counsel from lads who knew

the hills as well as their sweethearts' faces. He rode first, and, while

they were on the bridle-path, they followed in single file, walking

their horses or leading them. Sophy and Dunstanbury rode behind, with

Basil Williamson and Henry Brown just in front of them. In advance, some

hundreds of yards, Peter Vassip acted as scout, coming back from time to

time to advise Lukovitch that the way was clear. The night fell fine and

fresh, but it was very dark. That did not matter; the men of Volseni

were like cats for seeing in the dark.

The first ten miles passed slowly and tediously, but without mistake or

mishap. They halted on the edge of the plain an hour before midnight and

took rest and food--each man carried provisions for two days. Behind

them now rose the steep hills whence they had come, before them

stretched the wide plain; away on their left was Slavna, straight ahead

Miklevni, the goal of their pilgrimage. Lukovitch moved about, seeing

that every man gave heed to his horse and had his equipment and his

weapons in good order. Then came the word to remount, and between twelve

and one, with a cheer hastily suppressed, the troop set forth at a good

trot over the level ground. Now Williamson and Henry Brown fell to the

rear with three or four Volsenians, lest by any chance or accident Sophy

should lose or be cut off from the main body. Lukovitch and Peter Vassip

rode together at the head.

To Dunstanbury that ride by night, through the spreading plain, was

wonderful--a thing sufficient in itself, without regard to its object or

its issue. He had seen some service before--and there was the joy of

that. He had known the comradeship of a bold enterprise--there was the

exaltation of that. He had taken great risks before--there was the

excitement of that. The night had ere now called him to the saddle--and

it called now with all its fascination. His blood tingled and burned

with all these things. But there was more. Beside him all the way was

the figure of Sophy dim in the darkness, and the dim silhouette of her

face--dim, yet, as it seemed, hardly blurred; its pallor stood out even

in the night. She engrossed his thoughts and spurred his speculations.

What thoughts dwelt in her? Did she ride to death, and was it a death

she herself courted? If so, he was sworn in his soul to thwart her, even

to his own death. She was not food for death, his soul cried,

passionately protesting against that loss, that impoverishment of the

world. Why had they let her come? She was not a woman of whom that could

be asked; therefore it was that his mind so hung on her, with an

attraction, a fascination, an overbearing curiosity. The men of Volseni

seemed to think it natural that she should come. They knew her, then,

better than he did!

Save for the exchange of a few words now and then about the road, they

had not talked; he had respected her silence. But she spoke now, and to

his great pleasure less sadly than he had expected. Her tone was light,

and witnessed to a whimsical enjoyment which not even memory could

altogether quench.

"This is my first war, Lord Dunstanbury," she said. "The first time I've

taken the field in person at the head of my men!"

"Yes, your Majesty's first campaign. May it be glorious!" he answered,

suiting his tone to hers.

"My first and my last, I suppose. Well, I could hardly have looked to

have even one--in those old days you know of--could I?"

"Frankly, I never expected to hold my commission as an officer from

you," he laughed. "As it is, I'm breaking all the laws in the world, I

suppose. Perhaps they'll never hear of it in England, though."

"Where there are no laws left, you can break none," she said. "There are

none left in Kravonia now. There's but one crime--to be weak; and but

one penalty--death."

"Neither the crime nor the penalty for us to-night!" he cried, gayly.

"Queen Sophia's star shines to-night!"

"Can you see it?" she asked, touching her cheek a moment.

"No, I can't," he laughed. "I forgot--I spoke metaphorically."

"When people speak of my star, I always think of this. So my star shines

to-night? Yes, I think so--shines brightly before it sets! I wonder if

Kravonia's star, too, will have a setting soon--a stormy setting!"

"Well, we're not helping to make it more tranquil," said Dunstanbury.

He saw her turn her head suddenly and sharply towards him; she spoke

quickly and low.

"I'm seeking a man's life in this expedition," she said. "It's his or

mine before we part."

"I don't blame you for that."

"Oh no!" The reply sounded almost contemptuous; at least it showed

plainly that her conscience was not troubled. "And he won't blame me

either. When he sees me, he'll know what it means."

"And, in fact, I intend to help. So do we all, I think."

"It was our oath in Volseni," she answered. "They think Monseigneur will

sleep the better for it. But I know well that nothing troubles

Monseigneur's sleep. And I'm so selfish that I wish he could be

troubled--yes, troubled about me; that he could be riding in the spirit

with us to-night, hoping for our victory; yet very anxious, very anxious

about me; that I could still bring him joy and sorrow, grief and

delight. I can't desire that Monseigneur should sleep so well. They're

kinder to him--his own folk of Volseni. They aren't jealous of his

sleep--not jealous of the peace of death. But I'm very jealous of it.

I'm to him now just as all the rest are; I, too, am nothing to

Monseigneur now."

"Who knows? Who can know?" said Dunstanbury, softly.

His attempted consolation, his invoking of the old persistent hope, the

saving doubt, did not reach her heart. In her great love of life, the

best she could ask of the tomb was a little memory there. So she had

told Monseigneur; such was the thought in her heart to-night. She was

jealous and forlorn because of the silent darkness which had wrapt her

lover from her sight and so enveloped him. He could not even ride with

her in the spirit on the night when she went forth to avenge the death

she mourned!

The night broke towards dawn, the horizon grew gray. Lukovitch drew in

his rein, and the party fell to a gentle trot. Their journey was almost

done. Presently they halted for a few minutes, while Lukovitch and Peter

Vassip held a consultation. Then they jogged on again in the same order,

save that now Sophy and Dunstanbury rode with Lukovitch at the head of

the party. In another half-hour, the heavens lightening yet more, they

could discern the double row of low trees which marked, at irregular

intervals, the course of the river across the plain. At the same moment

a row of squat buildings rose in murky white between them and the

river-bank. Lukovitch pointed to it with his hand.

"There we are, madame," he said. "That's the farm-house at the right

end, and the barn at the left--within a hundred yards of the lock.

There's our shelter till the Colonel comes."

"What of the farmer?" asked Dunstanbury.

"We shall catch him in his bed--him and his wife," said Lukovitch.

"There's only the pair of them. They keep the lock, and have a few acres

of pastureland to eke out their living. They'll give us no trouble. If

they do, we can lock them in and turn the key. Then we can lie quiet in

the barn; with a bit of close packing, it'll take us all. Peter Vassip

and I will be lock-keepers if anything comes by; we know the work--eh,

Peter?"

"Ay, Captain; and the man--Peter's his name too, by-the-way--must give

us something to hide our sheepskins."

Sophy turned to Dunstanbury. She was smiling now.

"It sounds very simple, doesn't it?" she asked.

"Then we watch our chance for a dash--when the Colonel's off his guard,"

Lukovitch went on.

"But if he won't oblige us in that way?" asked Dunstanbury, with a

laugh.

"Then he shall have the reward of his virtue in a better fight for the

guns," said Lukovitch. "Now, lads, ready! Listen! I'm going forward with

Peter Vassip here and four more. We'll secure the man and his wife;

there might be a servant-girl on the premises too, perhaps. When you

hear my whistle, the rest of you will follow. You'll take command, my

lord?" He turned to Sophy. "Madame, will you come with me or stay here?"

"I'll follow with Lord Dunstanbury," she said. "We ought all to be in

the barn before it's light?"

"Surely! A barge might come up or down the river, you see, and it

wouldn't do for the men on board to see anybody but Vassip and me, who

are to be the lock-keepers."

He and Peter Vassip rode off with their party of four, and the rest

waited in a field a couple of hundred yards from the barn--a dip in the

ground afforded fair cover. Some of the men began to dismount, but

Dunstanbury stopped them. "It's just that one never knows," he said;

"and it's better to be on your horse than off it in case any trouble

does come, you know."

"There oughtn't to be much trouble with the lock-keeper and his wife--or

even with the servant-girl," said Basil Williamson.

"Girls can make a difference sometimes," Sophy said, with a smile. "I

did once, in the Street of the Fountain over in Slavna there!"

Dunstanbury's precaution was amply justified, for, to their

astonishment, the next instant a shot rang through the air, and, the

moment after, a loud cry. A riderless horse galloped wildly past them;

the sheepskin rug across the saddle marked it as belonging to a

Volsenian.

"By Heaven, have they got there before us?" whispered Dunstanbury.

"I hope so; we sha'n't have to wait," said Sophy.

But they did wait there a moment. Then came a confused noise from the

long, low barn. Then a clatter of hoofs, and Lukovitch was with them

again; but his comrades were four men now, not five.

"Hush! Silence! Keep cover!" he panted breathlessly. "Stafnitz is here

already; at least, there are men in the barn, and horses tethered

outside, and the barges are on the river, just above the lock. The

sentry saw us. He challenged and fired, and one of us dropped. It must

be Stafnitz!"

Stafnitz it was. General Stenovics had failed to allow for the respect

which his colleague entertained for his abilities. If Stenovics expected

him back at Slavna with his guns on the Sunday, Stafnitz was quite clear

that he had better arrive on Saturday. To this end he had strained every

nerve. The stream was with him, flowing strong, but the wind was

contrary; his barges had not made very good progress. He had pressed the

horses of his company into service on the towing-path. Stenovics had not

thought of that. His rest at Rapska had been only long enough to give

his men and beasts an hour's rest and food and drink. To his pride and

exultation, he had reached the lock at Miklevni at nightfall on Friday,

almost exactly at the hour when Sophy's expedition set out on its ride

to intercept him. Men and horses might be weary now; Stafnitz could

afford to be indifferent to that. He could give them a good rest, and

yet, starting at seven the next morning, be in Slavna with them and the

guns in the course of the afternoon. There might be nothing wrong, of

course--but it was no harm to forestall any close and clever calculation

of the General's.

"The sentry?" whispered Dunstanbury.

"I had to cut him down. Shall we be at them, my lord?"

"No, not yet. They're in the barn, aren't they?"

"Yes. Don't you hear them? Listen! That's the door opened. Shall we

charge?"

"No, no, not yet. They'd retreat inside, and it would be the devil then.

They'd have the pull of us. Wait for them to come out. They must send to

look for the sentry. Tell the men to lean right down in their

saddles--close down--close! Then the ground covers us. And now--silence

till I give the word!"

Silence fell again for a few moments. They were waiting for a movement

from Stafnitz's men in the barn. Only Dunstanbury, bareheaded, risked a

look over the hillock which protected them from view.

A single man had come out of the barn, and was looking about him for the

sentry who had fired. He seemed to suspect no other presence. Stafnitz

must have been caught in a sound nap this time.

The searcher found his man and dropped on his knees by him for a moment.

Then he rose and ran hurriedly towards the barn, crying: "Colonel!

Colonel!"

"Now!" whispered impetuous Lukovitch.

But Dunstanbury pressed him down again, saying: "Not yet. Not yet."

Sophy laid her hand on his arm. "Half of us to the barges," she said.

In their eagerness for the fight, Lukovitch and Dunstanbury had

forgotten the main object of it. But the guns were what Monseigneur

would have thought of first--what Stafnitz must first think of too--the

centre of contest and the guerdon of victory.

XXIII

A WOMAN AND A GHOST

For the history of this night from the enemy's side, thanks are due to

the memory, and to the unabashed courtesy, of Lieutenant Rastatz, who

came alive, if not with a whole skin, out of the encounter, and lived to

reach middle age under a new _régime_ so unappreciative of his services

that it cashiered him for getting drunk within a year from this date. He

ended his days as a billiard-marker at the Golden Lion--a fact agreeable

to poetic justice, but not otherwise material. While occupying that

capacity, he was always ready to open his mouth to talk, provided he

were afforded also a better reason for opening it.

Stafnitz and his men felt that their hard work was done; they were

within touch of Slavna, and they had no reason, as they supposed, to

fear any attack. The Colonel had indulged them in something approaching

to a carouse. Songs had been sung, and speeches made; congratulations

were freely offered to the Colonel; allusions were thrown out, not too

carefully veiled, to the predicament in which Stenovics found himself.

Hard work, a good supper, and plentiful wine had their effect. Save the

sentries, all were asleep at ten o'clock, and game to sleep till the

reveille sounded at six.

Their presence was a surprise to their assailants, who had, perhaps,

approached in too rash a confidence that they were first on the ground;

but the greater surprise befell those who had now to defend the barges

and the guns. When the man who had found the dead sentry ran back and

told his tale, all of them, from Stafnitz downward, conceived that the

attack must come from Stenovics; none thought of Sophy and her

Volsenians. There they were, packed in the barn, separated from their

horses, and with their carbines laid aside. The carbines were easily

caught up; the horses not so easily reached, supposing an active,

skilful enemy at hand outside.

For themselves, their position was good to stand a siege. But Stafnitz

could not afford that. His mind flew where Sophy's had. Throughout, and

on both sides, the guns were the factor which dominated the tactics of

the fight. It was no use for Stafnitz to stay snug in the barn while the

enemy overpowered the bargees (supposing they tried to fight), disposed

of the sentry stationed on each deck, and captured the guns. Let the

assailant carry them off, and the Colonel's game was up! Whoever the foe

was, the fight was for the guns--and for one other thing, no doubt--for

the Colonel's life.

"We felt in the deuce of a mess," Rastatz related, "for we didn't know

how many they were, and we couldn't see one of them. The Colonel walked

out of the barn, cool as a cucumber, and looked and listened. He called

to me to go with him, and so I did, keeping as much behind his back as

possible. Nothing was to be seen, nothing to be heard. He pointed to the

rising ground opposite. 'That must hide them,' he said. Back he went and

called the first half-company. 'You'll follow me in single file out of

the barn and round to the back of it; let there be a foot between each

of you--room enough to miss. When once you get in rear of the barn, make

for the barges. Never mind the horses. The second half-company will

cover the horses with their fire. Rastatz, see my detachment round, and

then follow. We'll leave the sergeant-major in command here. Now, quick,

follow me!'

"Out he went, and the men began to follow in their order. I had to stand

in the doorway and regulate the distance between man and man. I hadn't

been there two seconds before a dozen heads came over the hill, and a

dozen rifles cracked. Luckily the Colonel was just round the corner.

Down went the heads again, but they'd bagged two of our fellows. I

shouted to more to come out, and at the same time ordered the

sergeant-major to send a file forward to answer the fire. Up came the

heads again, and they bagged three more. Our fellows blazed away in

reply, but they'd dropped too quickly--I don't think we got one.

"Well, we didn't mind so much about keeping our exact distances after

that--and I wouldn't swear that the whole fifty of us faced the fire; it

was devilish disconcerting, you know; but in a few minutes thirty or

five-and-thirty of us got round the side of the barn somehow, and for

the moment out of harm's way. We heard the fire going on still in front,

but only in a desultory way. They weren't trying to rush us--and I don't

think we had any idea of rushing them. For all we knew, they might be

two hundred--or they might be a dozen. At any rate, with the advantage

of position, they were enough to bottle our men up in the barn, for the

moment at all events."

This account makes what had happened pretty plain. Half of Sophy's

force had been left to hold the enemy, or as many of them as possible,

in the barn. They had dismounted, and, well covered by the hill, could

make good practice without much danger to themselves. Lukovitch was in

command of this section of the little troop. Sophy, Dunstanbury, and

Peter Vassip, also on foot (the horses' hoofs would have betrayed them),

were stealing round, intent on getting between the barges and any men

whom Stafnitz tried to place in position for their defence. After

leaving men for the containing party, and three to look after the

horses, this detachment was no more than a dozen strong. But they had

started before Stafnitz's men had got out of the barn, and, despite the

smaller distance the latter had to traverse, could make a good race of

it for the barges. They had all kept together, too, while the enemy

straggled round to the rear of the barn in single file. And they had one

great, perhaps decisive, advantage, of whose existence Peter Vassip,

their guide, was well aware.

Forty yards beyond the farm a small ditch ran down to the Krath; on the

side near the farm it had a high, overhanging bank, the other side being

nearly level with the adjoining meadow. Thus it formed a natural trench

and led straight down to where the first of the barges lay. It would

have been open to an enfilade from the river, but Stafnitz had only one

sentry on each barge, and these men were occupied in staring at their

advancing companions and calling out to know what was the matter. As for

the bargees, they had wisely declared neutrality, deeming the matter no

business of theirs; shots were not within the terms of a contract for

transport. Stafnitz, not dreaming of an attack, had not reconnoitred

his ground. But Lukovitch knew every inch of it (had not General

Stenovics remembered that?), and so did Peter Vassip. The surprise of

Praslok was to be avenged.

Rastatz takes up the tale again; his narrative has one or two touches

vivid with a local color.

"When I got round to the rear of the barn, I found our fellows scattered

about on their bellies. The Colonel was in front on his belly, with his

head just raised from the ground, looking about him. I lay down, too,

getting my head behind a stone which chanced to be near me. I looked

about me too, when it seemed safe. And it did seem safe at first, for we

could hear nothing, and deuce a man could we see! But it wasn't very

pleasant, because we knew that, sure enough, they must be pretty near us

somewhere. Presently the Colonel came crawling back to me. 'What do you

make of it, Rastatz?' he whispered. Before I could answer, we heard a

brisk exchange of fire in front of the barn. 'I don't like it,' I said.

'I can't see them, and I've a notion they can see me, Colonel, and

that's not the pleasantest way to fight, is it?' 'Gad, you're right!'

said he, 'but they won't see me any the better for a cigarette'--and

then and there he lit one.

"Well, he'd just thrown away his match when a young fellow--quite a lad

he was--a couple of yards from us, suddenly jumped from his belly on to

his knees and called out quite loud--it seemed to me he'd got a sort of

panic--quite loud, he called out: 'Sheepskins! Sheepskins!' I jumped

myself, and I saw the Colonel start. But, by Jove, it was true! When you

took a sniff, you could smell them. Of course I don't mean what the

better class wear--you couldn't have smelt the tunic our lamented

Prince wore, nor the one the witch decked herself out in--but you could

smell a common fellow's sheepskin twenty yards off--ay, against the

wind, unless the wind was mighty strong.

"'Sheepskins it is!' said the Colonel with a sniff. 'Volsenians, by gad!

It's Mistress Sophia, Rastatz, or some of her friends, anyhow.' Then he

swore worthily: 'Stenovics must have put them up to this! And where the

devil are they, Rastatz?' He raised his head as he spoke, and got his

answer. A bullet came singing along and went right through his shako; it

came from the line of the ditch. He lay down again, laughed a little,

and took a puff at his cigarette before he threw it away. Just then one

of our sentries bellowed from the first barge: 'In the ditch! In the

ditch!' 'I wish you'd spoken a bit sooner,' says the Colonel, laughing

again."

While this was passing on Stafnitz's side, Sophy and her party were

working quietly and cautiously down the course of the ditch. Under the

shelter of its bank they had been able to hold a brief and hurried

consultation. What they feared was that Stafnitz would make a dash for

the barges. Their fire might drop half his men, but the survivors, when

once on board--and the barges were drawn up to the edge of the

stream--would still be as numerous as themselves, and would command the

course of the ditch, which was at present their great resource and

protection. But if they could get on board before the enemy, they

believed they could hold their own; the decks were covered with

_impedimenta_ of one sort or another which would afford them cover,

while any party which tried to board must expose itself to fire to a

serious and probably fatal extent.

So they worked down the ditch--except two of them. Little as they could

spare even two, it was judged well to leave these; their instructions

were to fire at short intervals, whether there was much chance of

hitting anybody or not. Dunstanbury hoped by this trick to make Stafnitz

believe that the whole detachment was stationary in the ditch thirty

yards or more from the point where it joined the river. Only ten strong

now--and one of them a woman--they made their way towards the mouth of

the ditch and towards the barges which held the prize they sought.

But a diversion, and a very effective one, was soon to come from the

front of the barn. Fearing that the party under Sophy and Dunstanbury

might be overpowered, Lukovitch determined on a bold step--that of

enticing the holders of the barn from their shelter. He directed his men

to keep up a brisk fire at the door; he himself and another man--one

Ossip Yensko--disregarding the risk, made a rapid dash across the line

of fire from the barn, for the spot where the horses were. The fire

directed at the door successfully covered their daring movement; they

were among the horses in a moment, and hard at work cutting the bands

with which they were tethered; the animals were half mad with fright,

and the task was one of great danger.

But the manoeuvre was eminently successful. A cry of "The horses! The

horses!" went up from the barn. Men appeared in the doorway; the

sergeant-major in command himself ran out. Half the horses were loose,

and stampeded along the towing-path down the river. "The horses! The

horses!" The defenders surged out of the barn, in deadly fear of being

caught there in a trap. They preferred the chances of the fire, and

streamed out in a disorderly throng. Lukovitch and Yensko cut loose as

many more horses as they dared wait to release; then, as the defenders

rushed forward, retreated, flying for their lives. Lukovitch came off

with a ball in his arm; Yensko dropped, shot through the heart. The men

behind the hill riddled the defenders with their fire. But now they were

by their horses--such as were left of them--nearer twenty than ten

dotted the grass outside the barn-door. And the survivors were

demoralized; their leader, the sergeant-major, lay dead. They released

the remaining horses, mounted, and with one parting volley fled down the

river. With a cry of triumph, Lukovitch collected the remainder of his

men and dashed round the side of the barn. The next moment Colonel

Stafnitz found himself attacked in his rear as well as held in check

from the ditch in his front.

"For a moment we thought it was our own men," said Rastatz, continuing

his account, "and the Colonel shouted: 'Don't fire, you fools!' But then

they cheered, and we knew the Volsenian accent--curse them! 'Sheepskins

again!' said the Colonel, with a wry kind of smile. He didn't hesitate

then; he jumped up, crying: 'To the barges! To the barges! Follow me!'

"We all followed: it was just as safe to go with him as to stay where

you were! We made a dash for it and got to the bank of the river. Then

they rose out of the ditch in front of us--and they were at us behind,

too--with steel now; they daren't shoot, for fear of hitting their own

people in our front. But the idea of a knife in your back isn't

pleasant, and in the end more of our men turned to meet them than went

on with the Colonel. I went on with him, though. I'm always for the

safest place, if there's one safer than another. But here there wasn't,

so I thought I might as well do the proper thing. We met them right by

the water's-edge, and the first I made out was the witch herself, in

sheepskins like the rest of them, white as a sheet, but with that

infernal mark absolutely blazing. She was between Peter Vassip and a

tall man I didn't know--I found out afterwards that he was the

Englishman Dunstanbury--and the three came straight at us. She cried:

'The King! the King!' and behind us we heard Lukovitch and his lot

crying: 'The King! the King!'

"Our fellows didn't like it, that's the truth. They were uneasy in their

minds about that job of poor old Mistitch's, and they feared the witch

like the devil. The heart was out of them; one lad near me burst out

crying. A witch and a ghost didn't seem pleasant things to fight. Oh, it

was all nonsense, but you know what fellows like that are. Their cry of

'The King!' and the sight of the woman caused a moment's hesitation. It

was enough to give them the drop on us. But the Colonel never hesitated;

he flung himself straight at her, and fired as he sprang. I just saw

what happened before I got a crack on the crown of the head from the

butt-end of a rifle, which knocked me out of time. As the Colonel fired,

Peter Vassip flung himself in front of her, and took the bullet in his

own body. Dunstanbury jumped right on the Colonel, cut him on the arm so

that he dropped his revolver, and grappled with him. Dunstanbury dropped

his sword, and the Colonel's wasn't drawn. It was just a tussle. They

were tussling when the blood came flowing down into my eyes from the

wound on my head; I couldn't see anything more; I fainted. Just as I

went off I heard somebody cry: 'Hands up!' and I imagined the fighting

was pretty well over."

The fighting was over. One scene remained which Rastatz did not see.

When Colonel Stafnitz, too, heard the call "Hands up!" when the firing

stopped and all became quiet, he ceased to struggle. Dunstanbury found

him suddenly changed to a log beneath him; his hands were already on the

Colonel's throat, and he could have strangled him now without

difficulty. But when Stafnitz no longer tried to defend himself, he

loosed his hold, got up, and stood over him with his hand on the

revolver in his belt. The Colonel fingered his throat a minute, sat up,

looked round, and rose to his feet. He saw Sophy standing before him; by

her side Peter Vassip lay on the ground, tended by Basil Williamson and

one of his comrades. Colonel Stafnitz bowed to Sophy with a smile.

"I forgot you, madame," said Stafnitz.

"I didn't forget Monseigneur," she answered.

He looked round him again, shrugged his shoulders, and seemed to think

for a moment. There was an absolute stillness--a contrast to the

preceding turmoil. But the silence made uncomfortable men whom the fight

had not shaken. Their eyes were set on Stafnitz.

"The Prince died in fair fight," he said.

"No; you sent Mistitch to murder him," Sophy replied. Her eyes were

relentless; and Stafnitz was ringed round with enemies.

"I apologize for this embarrassment. I really ought to have been

killed--it's just a mistake," he said, with a smile. He turned quickly

to Dunstanbury: "You seem to be a gentleman, sir. Pray come with me; I

need a witness." He pointed with his unwounded hand to the barn.

Dunstanbury bowed assent. The Colonel, in his turn, bowed to Sophy, and

the two of them turned and walked off towards the barn. Sophy stood

motionless, watching them until they turned the corner; then she fell on

her knees and began to talk soothingly to Peter Vassip, who was hard

hit, but, in Basil Williamson's opinion, promised to do well. Sophy was

talking to the poor fellow when the sound of a revolver shot--a single

shot--came from the barn. Colonel Stafnitz had corrected the mistake.

Sophy did not raise her head. A moment later Dunstanbury came back and

rejoined them. He exchanged a look with Sophy, inclining his head as a

man does in answering "Yes." Then she rose.

"Now for the barges and the guns," she said.

They could not carry the guns back to Volseni; nor, indeed, was there

any use for them there now. But neither were Monseigneur's guns for the

enemies of Monseigneur. Under Lukovitch's skilled directions (his wound

proved slight) the big guns were so disabled as to remain of little

value, and the barges taken out into mid-stream and there scuttled with

their cargoes. While one party pursued this work, Dunstanbury made the

prisoners collect their wounded and dead, place them on a wagon, and set

out on their march to Slavna. Then his men placed their dead on

horses--they had lost three. Five were wounded besides Peter Vassip, but

none of them severely--all could ride. For Peter they took a cart from

the farm to convey him as far as the ascent to the hills; up that he

would have to be carried by his comrades.

It was noon before all their work was done. The barges were settling in

the water. As they started to ride back to Volseni, the first sank; the

second was soon to follow it.

"We have done our work," said Lukovitch.

And Sophy answered, "Yes."

But Stafnitz's men had not carried the body of their commander back.

They left it in the barn, cursing him for the trap he had led them into.

Later in the day, the panic-stricken lock-keeper stole out from the

cellar where he had hidden himself, and found it in the barn. He and his

wife lifted it with cursings, bore it to the river, and flung it in. It

was carried over the weir, and floated down to Slavna. They fished it

out with a boat-hook just opposite Suleiman's Tower. The hint to Captain

Sterkoff was a broad one. He reported a vacancy in the command, and sent

the keys of the fort to General Stenovics. It was Sunday morning.

"The Colonel has got back just when he said he would. But where are the

guns?" asked General Stenovics of Captain Markart. The Captain had by

now made up his mind which turn to take.

But no power ensued to Stenovics. At the best his fate was a soft

fall--a fall on to a cushioned shelf. The cup of Kravonia's iniquity,

full with the Prince's murder, brimmed over with the punishment of the

man who had caused it. The fight by the lock of Miklevni sealed

Kravonia's fate. Civilization must be vindicated! Long columns of

flat-capped soldiers begin to wind, like a great snake, over the summit

of St. Peter's Pass. Sophy watched them through a telescope from the old

wall of Volseni.

"Our work is done. Monseigneur has mightier avengers," she said.

XXIV

TRUE TO HER LOVE

Volseni forgave Sophy its dead and wounded sons. Her popularity blazed

up in a last fierce, flickering fire. The guns were taken; they would

not go to Slavna; they would never batter the walls of Volseni into

fragments. Slavna might be defied again. That was the great thing to

Volseni, and it made little account of the snakelike line which crawled

over St. Peter's Pass, and down to Dobrava, and on to Slavna. Let

Slavna--hated Slavna--reckon with that! And if the snake--or another

like it--came to Volseni? Well, that was better than knuckling down to

Slavna. To-night King Sergius was avenged, and Queen Sophia had returned

in victory!

For the first time since the King's death the bell of the ancient church

rang joyously, and men sang and feasted in the gray city of the hills.

Thirty from Volseni had beaten a hundred from Slavna; the guns were at

the bottom of the Krath; it was enough. If Sophy had bidden them, they

would have streamed down on Slavna that night in one of those fierce

raids in which their forefathers of the Middle Ages had loved to swoop

upon the plain.

But Sophy had no delusions. She saw her Crown--that fleeting phantom

ornament, fitly foreseen in the visions of a charlatan--passing from her

brow without a sigh. She had not needed Dunstanbury's arguments to

prove to her that there was no place for her left in Kravonia. She was

content to have it so; she had done enough. Sorrow had not passed from

her face, but serenity had come upon it in fuller measure. She had

struck for Monseigneur, and the blow was witness to her love. It was

enough in her, and enough in little Volseni. Let the mightier avengers

do the rest!

She had allowed Dunstanbury to leave her after supper in order to make

preparations for a start to the frontier at dawn. "You must certainly

go," she had said, "and perhaps I'll come with you."

She went at night up on to the wall--always her favorite place; she

loved the spaciousness of air and open country before her there. Basil

Williamson found her deep in thought when he came to tell her of the

progress of the wounded.

"They're all doing well, and Peter Vassip will live. Dunstanbury has

made him promise to come to him when he's recovered, so you'll meet him

again at all events. And Marie Zerkovitch and her husband talk of

settling in Paris. You won't lose all your Kravonian friends."

"You assume that I'm coming with you to-morrow morning?"

"I'm quite safe in assuming that Dunstanbury won't go unless you do," he

answered, smiling. "We can't leave you alone here, you know."

"I shouldn't stay here, anyhow," she said. "Or, at any rate, I should be

where nobody could hurt me." She pointed at a dim lantern, fastened to

the gate-tower by an iron clamp, then waved her hand towards the

surrounding darkness. "That's life, isn't it?" she asked. "If I believed

that I could go to Monseigneur, I would go to-night--nay, I would have

gone at Miklevni; it was only putting my head out of that ditch a minute

sooner! If I believed even that I could lie in the church there and know

that he was near! If I believed even that I could lie there quietly and

remember and think of him! You're a man of science--you're not a

peasant's child, as I am. What do you think? You mustn't wonder that

I've had my thoughts, too. At Lady Meg's we did little else than try to

find out whether we were going on anywhere else. That's all she cared

about. And if she does ever get to a next world, she won't care about

that; she'll only go on trying to find out whether there's still another

beyond. What do you think?"

"I hardly expected to find you so philosophically inclined," he said.

"It's a practical question with me now. On its answer depends whether I

come with you or stay here--by Monseigneur in the church."

Basil said something professional--something about nerves and temporary

strain. But he performed this homage to medical etiquette in a rather

perfunctory fashion. He had never seen a woman more composed or more

obviously and perfectly healthy. Sophy smiled and went on:

"But if I live, I'm sure at least of being able to think and able to

remember. It comes to a gamble, doesn't it? It's just possible I might

get more; it's quite likely--I think it's probable--I should lose even

what I have now."

"I think you're probably right about the chances of the gamble," he told

her, "though no doubt certainty is out of place--or at least one doesn't

talk about it. Shall I tell you what science says?"

"No," said Sophy, smiling faintly. "Science thinks in multitudes--and

I'm thinking of the individual to-night. Even Lady Meg never made much

of science, you know."

"Do you remember the day when I heard you your Catechism in the avenue

at Morpingham?"

"Yes, I remember. Does the Catechism hold good in Kravonia, though?"

"It continues, anyhow, a valuable document in its bearing on this life.

You remember the mistake you made, I dare say?"

"I've never forgotten it. It's had something to do with it all," said

Sophy. "That's how you, as well as Lord Dunstanbury, come in at the

beginning as you do at the end."

"Has it nothing to do with the question now--putting it in any

particular phraseology you like?" In his turn he pointed at the smoky

lantern. "That's not life," he said, growing more earnest, yet smiling.

"That's now--just here and now--and, yes, it's very smoky." He waved his

hand over the darkness. "That's life. Dark? Yes, but the night will

lift, the darkness pass away; valley and sparkling lake will be there,

and the summit of the heaven-kissing hills. Life cries to you with a

sweet voice."

"Yes," she murmured, "with a sweet voice. And perhaps some day there

would be light on the hills. But, ah, I'm torn in sunder this night. I

wish I had died there at Miklevni while my blood was hot." She paused a

long while in thought. Then she went on: "If I go, I must go while it's

still dark, and while these good people sleep. Go and tell Lord

Dunstanbury to be ready to start an hour before dawn; and do you and he

come then to the door of the church. If I'm not waiting for you there,

come inside and find me."

He started towards her with an eager gesture of protest. She raised her

hand and checked him.

"No, I've decided nothing. I can't tell yet," she said. She turned and

left him; he heard her steps descending the old winding stair which led

from the top of the wall down into the street. He did not know whether

he would see her alive again--and with her message of such ambiguous

meaning he went to Dunstanbury. Yet curiously, though he had pleaded so

urgently with her, though to him her death would mean the loss of one of

the beautiful things from out the earth, he was in no distress for her

and did not dream of attempting any constraint. She knew her

strength--she would choose right. If life were tolerable, she would take

up the burden. If not, she would let it lie unlifted at her quiet feet.

His mood could not be Dunstanbury's, who had come to count her presence

as the light of the life that was his. Yet Dunstanbury heard the message

quietly, and quietly made every preparation in obedience to her bidding.

That done, he sat in the little room of the inn and smoked his pipe with

Basil. Henry Brown waited his word to take the horses to the door of the

church. Basil Williamson had divined his friend's feeling for Sophy, and

wondered at his calmness.

"If I felt the doubt that you do, I shouldn't be calm," said

Dunstanbury. "But I know her. She will be true to her love."

He could not be speaking of that love of hers which was finished, whose

end she was now mourning in the little church. It must be of another

love that he spoke--of one bred in her nature, the outcome of her

temperament and of her being the woman that she was. The spirit which

had brought her to Slavna had made her play her part there, had

welcomed and caught at every change and chance of fortune, had never

laid down the sword till the blow was struck--that spirit would preserve

her and give her back to life now--and some day give life back to her.

He was right. When they came to the door of the church, she was there.

For the first time since Monseigneur had died, her eyes were red with

weeping; but her face was calm. She gave her hand to Dunstanbury.

"Come, let us mount," she said. "I have said 'Good-bye.'"

Lukovitch knew Dunstanbury's plans. He was waiting for them at the gate,

his arm in a sling, and with him were the Zerkovitches. These last they

would see again; it was probably farewell forever to gallant Lukovitch.

He kissed the silver ring on Sophy's finger.

"I brought nothing into Kravonia," she said, "and I carry nothing out,

except this ring which Monseigneur put on my finger--the ring of the

Bailiffs of Volseni."

"Keep it," said Lukovitch. "I think there will be no more Bailiffs of

Volseni--or some Prince, not of our choosing, will take the title by his

own will. He will not be our Bailiff, as Monseigneur was. You will be

our Bailiff, though our eyes never see you, and you never see our old

gray walls again. Madame, have a kindly place in your heart for Volseni.

We sha'n't forget you nor the blow we struck under your leadership. The

fight at Miklevni may well be the last that we shall fight as free men."

"Volseni is written on my heart," she answered. "I shall not forget."

She bade her friends farewell, and then ordered Lukovitch to throw open

the gate. She and the three Englishmen rode through, Henry Brown leading

the pack-horse by the bridle. The mountains were growing gray with the

first approaches of dawn.

As she rode through, Sophy paused a moment, leaned sideways in her

saddle, and kissed the ancient lintel of the door.

"Peace be on this place," she said, "and peace to the tomb where

Monseigneur lies buried!"

"Peace be on thy head and fortune with thee!" answered Lukovitch in the

traditional words of farewell. He kissed her hand again, and they

departed.

It was high morning when they rode up the ascent to St. Peter's Pass and

came to the spot where their cross-track joined the main road over the

pass from Dobrava and the capital. In silence they mounted to the

summit. The road under their horses' feet was trampled with the march of

the thousands of men who had passed over it in an irresistible advance

on Slavna.

At the summit of the pass they stopped, and Sophy turned to look back.

She sat there for a long while in silence.

"I have loved this land," at last she said. "It has given me much, and

very much it has taken away. Now the face of it is to be changed. But in

my heart the memory of it will not change." She looked across the

valley, across the sparkling face of Lake Talti, to the gray walls of

Volseni, and kissed her hand. "Farewell, Monseigneur!" she whispered,

very low.

The day of Kravonia was done. The head of the great snake had reached

Slavna. Countess Ellenburg and young Alexis were in flight. Stenovics

took orders where he had looked to rule. The death of Monseigneur was

indeed avenged. But there was no place for Sophy, the Queen of a

tempestuous hour.

They set their horses' heads towards the frontier. They began the

descent on the other side. The lake was gone, the familiar hills

vanished; only in the eye of memory stood old Volseni still set in its

gray mountains. Sophy rode forth from Kravonia in her sheepskins and her

silver ring--the last Queen of Kravonia, the last Bailiff of Volseni,

the last chosen leader of the mountain men. But the memory of the Red

Star lived after her--how she loved Monseigneur and avenged him, how her

face was fairer than the face of other women, and more pale--and how the

Red Star glowed in sorrow and in joy, in love and in clash of arms,

promising to some glory and to others death. In the street of Volseni

and in the cabins among the hills you may hear the tale of the Red Star

yet.

As she passed the border of the land which was so great in her life, by

a freak of memory Sophy recalled a picture till now forgotten--a woman,

unknown, untraced, unreckoned, who had passed down the Street of the

Fountain, weeping bitterly--an obscure symbol of great woes, of the

tribute life pays to its unresting enemies.

Yet to the unconquerable heart life stands unconquered. What danger had

not shaken not even sorrow could overthrow. She rode into the future

with Dunstanbury on her right hand--patience in his mind, and in his

heart hope. Some day the sun would shine on the summit of heaven-kissing

hills.

THE END