Anna Petrovitch fell weeping into my arms, with the doleful cry:
‘Queen Draga is dead! Queen Draga is dead!’
Five minutes later I had placed the desolate creature in the train,
and we were speeding on our way to Vienna.
It was in the train that I learned the few particulars that Anna had
to tell. But I had already guessed the nature of the catastrophe.
Another party of soldiers, headed by a personal enemy of the Queen’s,
had invaded the Royal suite through the waiting-maid’s room at the
instant that Masileff and his men burst into the bedroom where the
valet was lying insensible. Whether Draga’s life might really have
been spared or not, it is impossible to say. The heroic woman’s
resolution was instantly taken. She knew that if the valet were
recognised there would at once be a hue and cry, and that the King
would be pursued and probably taken; and she resolved to give her
life for her husband’s. She cast herself on the inanimate form lying
on the bed, concealed the face in her arms, and allowed herself to be
stabbed by a dozen bayonets.
[Illustration: “Queen Draga cast herself on the inanimate form on
the bed, concealed the face in her arms, and allowed herself to be
stabbed by a dozen bayonets.”]
Of the savage details of the murder I dare not trust myself to write.
To those who know how thin is the veneer of civilisation on the
Southern Slaves, how faint is the moral difference between some of
these so-called Christians and their Mohammedan neighbours, it will
not come as a surprise to learn that when the bloodhounds desisted
from their work there was no longer any possibility of recognising
either of their victims.
Of the young King, and what has become of him since that hideous
night, I intend to say no single word. Of her who perished, let no
man henceforth say anything but good.
X