II

As I have already remarked, I used frequently to take long rides into

the country, and sometimes I did not return till the following day. My

clerk was always on duty, and the work never appeared to make him

round-shouldered.

I had ridden horses for years, and to throw a leg over a good mount was

to me one of the greatest pleasures in the world. I delighted in

stopping at the old feudal inns, of studying the stolid German peasant,

of drinking from steins uncracked these hundred years, of inspecting

ancient armor and gathering trifling romances attached thereto. And

often I have had the courage to stop at some quaint, crumbling

_Schloss_ or castle and ask for a night's lodging for myself and horse.

Seldom, if ever, did I meet with a refusal.

I possessed the whimsical habit of picking out strange roads and riding

on till night swooped down from the snow-capped mountains. I had a bit

of poetry in my system that had never been completely worked out, and I

was always imagining that at the very next _Schloss_ or inn I was to

hit upon some delectable adventure. I was only twenty-eight, and

inordinately fond of my Dumas.

I rode in grey whipcord breeches, tan boots, a blue serge coat, white

stock, and never a hat or cap till the snow blew. I used to laugh when

the peasants asked leave to lend me a cap or to run back and find the

one I had presumably lost.

One night the delectable adventure for which I was always seeking came

my way, and I was wholly unprepared for it.

I had taken the south highway: that which seeks the valley beyond the

lake. The moon-film lay mistily upon everything: on the far-off lake,

on the great upheavals of stone and glacier above me, on the long white

road that stretched out before me, ribbon-wise. High up the snow on

the mountains resembled huge opals set in amethyst. I was easily

twenty-five miles from the city; that is to say, I had been in the

saddle some six hours. Nobody but a king's messenger will ride a horse

more than five miles an hour. I cast about for a place to spend the

night. There was no tavern in sight, and the hovels I had passed

during the last hour offered no shelter for my horse. Suddenly, around

a bend in the road, I saw the haven I was seeking. It was a rambling,

tottering old castle, standing in the center of a cluster of firs; and

the tiles of the roofs and the ivy of the towers were shining silver

with the heavy fall of dew.

Lady Chloe sniffed her kind, whinnied, and broke into a trot. She knew

sooner than I that there was life beyond the turn. We rode up to the

gate, and I dismounted and stretched myself. I tried the gate. The

lock hung loose, like a paralytic hand. Evidently those inside had

nothing to fear from those outside. I grasped an iron bar and pushed

in the gate, Chloe following knowingly at my heels. I could feel the

crumbling rust on my gloves. Chloe whinnied again, and there came an

answering whinny from somewhere in the rear of the castle. Somebody

must be inside, I reasoned.

There were lights in the left wing, but this part of the castle was

surrounded by an empty moat, damp and weedy. This was not to be

entered save by a ladder. There was a great central door, however,

which had a modern appearance. The approach was a broad graveled walk.

I tied Lady Chloe to a tree, knotted the bridle-reins above her neck to

prevent her from putting her restless feet into them, and proceeded

toward the door.

Of all the nights this was the one on which my usually lively

imagination reposed. I was hungry and tired, and I dare say my little

mare was. I wasn't looking for an adventure; I didn't want any

adventure; I wanted nothing in the world but a meal and a bed. But for

the chill of the night air--the breath of the mountain is cold at

night--I should have been perfectly willing to sleep in the open. Down

drawbridge, up portcullis!

I boldly climbed the steps and groped around for the knocker. It was

broken and useless, like the lock on the gate. And never a bell could

I find. I swore softly and became impatient. People in Barscheit did

not usually live in this slovenly fashion. What sort of place was this?

Suddenly I grew erect, every fiber in my body tense and expectant.

A voice, lifted in song! A great penetrating yet silkily mellow voice;

a soprano; heavenly, not to say ghostly, coming as it did from the

heart of this gloomy ruin of stone and iron. The jewel song from

_Faust_, too! How the voice rose, fell, soared again with intoxicating

waves of sound! What permeating sweetness! I stood there, a solitary

listener, as far as I knew, bewildered, my heart beating hard and fast.

I forgot my hunger.

Had I stumbled upon one of my dreams at last? Had Romance suddenly

relented, as a coquette sometimes relents? For a space I knew not what

to do. Then, with a shrug--I have never been accused of lacking

courage--I tried once more, by the aid of a match, to locate a bell.

There was absolutely nothing; and the beating of my riding-crop on the

panels of that huge door would have been as noisy as a feather. I

grasped the knob and turned it impatiently. Behold! the door opened

without sound, and I stepped into the hallway, which was velvet black.

The wonderful voice went on. I paused, with hands outstretched.

Supposing I bumped into something! I took a step forward, another and

another; I swung my crop in a half-circle; all was vacancy, I took

another step, this time in the direction of the voice--and started back

with a smothered curse. Bang-ang! I had run into a suit of old armor,

the shield of which had clattered to the stone floor. As I have

observed, I am not a coward, but I had all I could do to keep my

legs--which were stirrup-weary, anyhow--from knocking under me!

Silence!

The song died. All over that great rambling structure not even the

reassuring chirp of a cricket! I stood perfectly still. What the

deuce should I do? Turn back? As I formed this question in my mind a

draft of wind slammed the door shut. I was in for it, sure enough; I

was positive that I could never find that door again. There was

nothing to do but wait, and wait with straining ears. Here were

mysterious inhabitants.--they might be revolutionists, conspirators,

counterfeiters.

Heaven knows how long I waited.

Soon I heard a laugh, light, infectious, fearless! Then I heard a

voice, soft and pleading.

"Don't go; in mercy's name, don't go, Gretchen! You may be killed!"

English! I had actually heard a voice speak my native tongue.

"Nonsense, Betty! I am not afraid of any ghost that ever walked, rode

or floated."

"Ghost? It may be a burglar!"

"Or Steinbock! We shall find nothing."

Indeed!

"Nothing but a rat, bungling about in the armor." The laughter came

again. "You are not _afraid_, Betty?"

"Only cautious. But how can you laugh? A rat?" cried a voice rather

anxiously. "Why, they are as big as dogs!"

"But arrant cowards."

So! one of these voices spoke English as its birthright; the other

spoke with an accent, that is to say, by adoption. Into what had I

fallen? Whither had my hunger brought me? I was soon to learn.

There came a faint thread of light on one side of the hall, such as may

be likened to that which filters under a door-sill. Presently this was

followed by the sound of jangling brass rings. A heavy velvet

portière--which I, being in darkness, had not discovered--slipped back.

My glance, rather blinded, was first directed toward the flame of the

candle. Then I lowered it--and surrendered for ever and for ever!

I beheld two faces in profile, as it were, one side in darkness, the

other tinted and glowing like ancient ivory. I honestly confess to you

that in all my wanderings--and they have been frequent and many--I

never saw such an enchanting picture or two more exquisite faces. One

peered forth with hesitant bravery; the other--she who held the

candle--with cold, tranquil inquiry.

All my fears, such as they were, left me instantly. Besides, I was not

without a certain amount of gallantry and humor. I stepped squarely

into the light and bowed.

"Ladies, I am indeed not a ghost, but I promise you that I shall be if

I am not offered something to eat at once!"

Tableau!

"What are you doing here?" asked she with the candle, her midnight eyes

drawing down her brows into a frown of displeasure.

I bowed. "To begin with, I find a gate unlocked, and being curious, I

open it; then I find a door unlatched, and I enter. Under these

unusual circumstances I am forced to ask the same question of you: what

are you doing here in this ruined castle? If it isn't ruined, it is

deserted, which amounts to the same thing." This _was_ impertinent,

especially on the part of a self-invited guest.

"That is my affair, sir. I have a right here, now and at all times."

Her voice was cold and authoritative. "There is an inn six miles

farther down the road; this is a private residence. Certainly you can

not remain here over night."

"Six miles?" I echoed dismally. "Madam, if I have seemed impertinent,

pardon me. I have been in the saddle six hours. I have ridden nearly

thirty miles since noon. I am dead with fatigue. At least give me

time to rest a bit before taking up the way again, I admit that the

manner of my entrance was informal; but how was I to know? There was

not even a knocker on the door by which to make known my presence to

you." The truth is, I did not want to go at once. No one likes to

stumble into an adventure--enchanting as this promised to be--and

immediately pop out of it. An idea came to me, serviceable rather than

brilliant. "I am an American. My German is poor. I speak no French.

I have lost my way, it would seem; I am hungry and tired. To ride six

miles farther now is a physical impossibility; and I am very fond of my

horse."

"He says he is hungry, Gretchen," said the English girl, dropping

easily into the French language as a vehicle of speech. (I was a

wretch, I know, but I simply could not help telling that lie; I didn't

want to go; and they _might_ be conspirators.) "Besides," went on the

girl, "he looks like a gentleman."

"We can not always tell a gentleman in the candle-light," replied

Gretchen, eying me critically and shrewdly and suspiciously.

As for me, I gazed from one to the ether, inquiringly, after the manner

of one who hears a tongue not understandable.

"He's rather nice," was the English girl's comment; "and his eyes

strike me as being too steady to be dishonest."

I had the decency to burn in the ears. I had taken the step, so now I

could not draw back. I sincerely hoped that they would not exchange

any embarrassing confidences. When alone women converse upon many

peculiar topics; and conversing in a tongue which they supposed to be

unknown to me, these two were virtually alone.

"But, my dear child," the other returned argumentatively, "we can not

offer hospitality to a strange man this night of all nights. Think of

what is to be accomplished."

(So something was to be accomplished? I was right, then, in deceiving

them. To accomplish something on a night like this, far from

habitation, had all the air of a conspiracy.)

"Feed him and his horse, and I'll undertake to get rid of him before

that detestable Steinbock comes. Besides, he might prove a valuable

witness in drawing up the papers."

(Papers?)

"I never thought of that. It will not do to trust Steinbock wholly."

Gretchen turned her searching eyes once more upon me. I confess that I

had some difficulty in steadying my own. There are some persons to

whom one can not lie successfully; one of them stood before me. But I

rather fancy I passed through the ordeal with at least half a victory.

"Will you go your way after an hour's rest?" she asked, speaking in the

familiar tongue.

"I promise." It was easy to make this promise. I wasn't a diplomat

for nothing. I knew how to hang on, to dodge under, to go about.

"Follow me," Gretchen commanded briefly.

(Who was she? What was going on?)

We passed through the gloomy salon. A damp, musty odor struck my sense

of smell. I was positive that the castle was uninhabited, save for

this night. Three candles burned on the mantel, giving to the gloom a

mysterious, palpitating effect. The room beyond was the dining-room,

richly paneled in wine-colored mahogany. This was better; it was

cheerful. A log crackled in the fireplace. There were plenty of

candles. There was a piano, too. This belonged to the castle; a heavy

tarpaulin covering lay heaped at one side. There was a mahogany

sideboard that would have sent a collector of antiques into raptures,

and a table upon which lay the remains of a fine supper. My mouth

watered. I counted over the good things: roast pheasant, pink ham, a

sea-food salad, asparagus, white bread and unsalted butter, an

alcohol-burner over which hung a tea-pot, and besides all this there

was a pint of La Rose which was but half-emptied. Have you ever been

in the saddle half a day? If you have, you will readily appreciate the

appetite that was warring with my curiosity.

"Eat," bade she who was called Gretchen, shortly.

"And my horse?"

"Where is it?"

"Tied to a tree by the gate."

She struck a Chinese gong. From the kitchen appeared an elderly

servitor who looked to me more fitted to handle a saber than a

carving-knife; at least, the scar on his cheek impressed me with this

idea. (I found out later that he was an old soldier, who lived alone

in the castle as caretaker.)

"Take this gentleman's horse to the stables and feed him," said

Gretchen. "You will find the animal by the gate."

With a questioning glance at me the old fellow bowed and made off.

I sat down, and the two women brought the various plates and placed

them within reach. Their beautiful hands flashed before my eyes and

now and then a sleeve brushed my shoulder.

"Thank you," I murmured. "I will eat first, and then make my

apologies."

This remark caught the fancy of Gretchen. She laughed. It was the

same laughter I had heard while standing in the great hall.

"Will you drink tea, or would you prefer to finish this Bordeaux?" she

asked pleasantly.

"The wine, if you please; otherwise the effect of the meal and the long

hours in the wind will produce sleepiness. And it would be frightfully

discourteous on my part to fall asleep in my chair. I am very hard to

awake."

The English girl poured out the wine and passed the goblet to me. I

touched my lips to the glass, and bent my head politely. Then I

resolutely proceeded to attack the pheasant and ham. I must prove to

these women that at least I was honest in regard to my hunger. I

succeeded in causing a formidable portion of the food to disappear.

And then I noticed that neither of the young women seated herself while

I ate. I understood. There was no hostility in this action; nothing

but formality. They declined to sit in the presence of an unwelcome

stranger, thus denying his equality from a social point of view. I

readily accepted this decision on their part. They didn't know who I

was. They stood together by the fireplace and carried on a

conversation in low tones.

How shall I describe them? The elder of the two, the one who seemed to

possess all the authority, could not have been more than twenty. Her

figure was rather matured, yet it was delicate. Her hair was tawny,

her skin olive in shade and richly tinted at the cheek-bones. Her

eyes, half framed by thick, black-arching brows, reminded me of

woodland pools in the dusk of evening,--depths unknown, cool,

refreshing in repose. The chin was resolute, the mouth was large but

shapely and brilliant, the nose possessed the delicate nostrils

characteristic of all sensitive beings--that is to say, thoroughbreds;

altogether a confusing, bewildering beauty. At one moment I believed

her to be Latin, at the next I was positive that she was Teutonic. I

could not discover a single weak point, unless impulsiveness shall be

called weakness; this sign of impulsiveness was visible in the lips.

The other--well, I couldn't help it. It was _Kismet_, fate, the turn

in the road, what you will. I fell heels over head in love with her at

once. She was charming, exquisite, one of those delicate creatures who

always appear in enchantments; a Bouguereau child grown into womanhood,

made to fit the protecting frame of a man's arms. Love steals into the

heart when we least expect him; and before we are aware, the sly little

god has unpacked his trunk and taken possession!

Eyes she had as blue as the Aegean Sea on windy days, blue as the

cloud-winnowed sky of a winter's twilight, blue as sapphires--Irish

eyes! Her hair was as dark and silken as a plume from the wings of

night. (Did I not say that I had some poetry in my system?) The shape

of her mouth--Never mind; I can recall only the mad desire to kiss it.

A graceful figure, a proud head, a slender hand, a foot so small that I

wondered if it really poised, balanced or supported her young body.

Tender she must be, and loving, enclitical rather than erect like her

authoritative companion. She was adorable.

All this inventory of feminine charms was taken by furtive glances,

sometimes caught--or were they taking an inventory of myself?

Presently my appetite became singularly submissive. Hunger often is

satisfied by the feeding of the eyes. I dropped my napkin on the table

and pushed back my chair. My hostesses ceased conversing.

"Ladies," said I courteously, "I offer you my sincere apologies for

this innocent intrusion." I looked at my watch. "I believe that you

gave me an hour's respite. So, then, I have thirty minutes to my

account."

The women gazed at each other. One laughed, and the other smiled; it

was the English girl who laughed this time. I liked the sound of it

better than any I had yet heard.

(Pardon another parenthesis. I hope you haven't begun to think that

_I_ am the hero of this comedy. Let it be furthest from your thoughts.

I am only a passive bystander.)

"I sincerely trust that your hunger is appeased," said the one who had

smiled.

"It is, thank you." I absently fumbled in my coat pockets, then

guiltily dropped my hands. What a terrible thing habit is!

"You may smoke," said the Bouguereau child who was grown into

womanhood. Wasn't that fine of her? And wasn't it rather observant,

too? I learned later that she had a brother who was fond of tobacco.

To her eyes my movement was a familiar one.

"With your kind permission," said I gratefully. I hadn't had a smoke

in four hours.

I owned a single good cigar, the last of my importation. I lighted it

and blew forth a snowy billow of heavenly aroma. I know something

about human nature, even the feminine side of it. A presentable young

man with a roll of aromatic tobacco seldom falls to win the confidence

of those about him. With that cloud of smoke the raw edge of formality

smoothed down.

"Had you any particular destination?" asked Gretchen.

"None at all. The road took my fancy, and I simply followed it."

"Ah! that is one of the pleasures of riding--to go wherever the

inclination bids. I ride."

We were getting on famously.

"Do you take long journeys?" I inquired.

"Often. It is the most exhilarating of sports," said the Enchantment.

"The scenery changes; there are so many things that charm and engage

your interest: the mountains, the waterways, the old ruins. Have you

ever whistled to the horses afield and watched them come galloping down

to the wall? It is fine. In England--" But her mouth closed

suddenly. She was talking to a stranger.

I love enthusiasm in a woman. It colors her cheeks and makes her eyes

sparkle, I grew a bit bolder.

"I heard a wonderful voice as I approached the castle," said I.

Gretchen shrugged.

"I haven't heard its equal outside Berlin or Paris," I went on.

"Paris?" said Gretchen, laying a neat little trap for me into which my

conceit was soon to tumble me. "Paris is a marvelous city."

"There is no city to equal it. Inasmuch as we three shall never meet

again, will you not do me the honor to repeat that jewel song from

_Faust_?" My audacity did not impress her in the least.

"You can scarcely expect me to give a supper to a stranger and then

sing for him, besides," said Gretchen, a chill again stealing into her

tones. "These Americans!" she observed to her companion in French.

I laid aside my cigar, approached the piano, and sat down. I struck a

few chords and found the instrument to be in remarkably good order. I

played a Chopin _Polonaise_, I tinkled Grieg's _Papillon_, then I

ceased.

"That is to pay for my supper," I explained.

Next I played _Le Courier_, and when I had finished that I turned

again, rising.

"That is to pay for my horse's supper," I said.

Gretchen's good humor returned.

"Whoever you are, sir," her tone no longer repellent, "you are amusing.

Pray, tell us whom we have the honor to entertain?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea who my hostess is,"--evasively.

"It is quite out of the question. You are the intruder."

"Call me Mr. Intruder, then," said I.

It was, you will agree, a novel adventure. I was beginning to enjoy it

hugely.

"Who do you suppose this fellow is?" Gretchen asked.

"He says he is an American, and I believe he is. What Americans are in

Barscheit?"

"I know of none at all. What shall we do to get rid of him?"

All this was carried on with unstudied rudeness. They were women of

high and noble quality; and as I was an interloper, I could take no

exception to a conversation in a language I had stated I did not

understand. If they were rude, I had acted in a manner unbecoming a

gentleman. Still, I was somewhat on the defensive. I took out my

watch. My hour was up.

"I regret that I must be off," I said ruefully. "It is much pleasanter

here than on the road."

"I can not ask you to remain here. You will find the inn a very

comfortable place for the night," was Gretchen's suggestion.

"Before I go, may I ask in what manner I might serve as a witness?"

Ere the words had fully crossed my lips I recognized that my smartness

had caused me to commit an unpardonable blunder for a man who wished to

show up well in an adventure of this sort. (But fate had a hand in it,

as presently you shall see.)

Gretchen laughed, but the sound was harsh and metallic. She turned to

her companion, who was staring at me with startled eyes.

"What did I tell you? You can not tell a gentleman in the

candle-light." To me she said:

"I thought as much. You have heard _Faust_ in Paris, but you know

nothing of the French language. You claimed to be a gentleman, yet you

have permitted us to converse in French."

"Was it polite of you to use it?" I asked. "All this," with a wave of

the hand, "appears mysterious. This is not a residence one would

expect to find inhabited--and by two charming women!" I bowed. "Your

presence here is even less satisfactorily explained than mine. If I

denied the knowledge of French it was because I wasn't sure of my

surroundings. It was done in self-defense rather than in the desire to

play a trick. And in this language you speak of witnesses, of papers,

of the coming of a man you do not trust. It looks very much like a

conspiracy." I gathered up my gloves and riding-crop. I believed that

I had extricated myself rather well.

"This is my castle," said Gretchen, gently shaking off the warning hand

of her companion. "If I desire to occupy it for a night, who shall

gainsay me? If I leave the latches down, that is due to the fact that

I have no one to fear. Now, sir, you have eaten the bread of my table,

and I demand to know who you are. If you do not tell me at once, I

shall be forced to confine you here till I am ready to leave."

"Confine me!"--nonplussed. This was more than I had reckoned on.

"Yes." She reached out to strike the gong. (I can not be blamed for

surrendering so tamely. I didn't know that the old servitor was the

only man around.)

"I am the American consul at Barscheit."

The two women drew together instinctively, as if one desired to protect

the other from some unknown calamity. What the deuce was it all about?

All at once Gretchen thrust aside her friend and approached. The table

was between us, and she rested her hands upon it. Our glances met and

clashed.

"Did the duke send you here?" she demanded repellently.

"The duke?" I was getting deeper than ever. "The duke?"

"Yes. I am the Princess Hildegarde."