IN THE GREENWOOD.
“We must go this way in order to get back to our proper road,” said
Cyril in a low voice, as they reached a street running at right angles
to that in which they were, and they walked briskly along it for some
little distance. Presently, as they passed the end of another street
leading from the market-place, they met a crowd of people, talking
loud and eagerly.
“He says they must be somewhere in the town, and all the inns are to
be visited.” “They say that if they are not discovered in that way no
one who cannot produce his credentials will be allowed to leave the
city.” “The search is beginning already, I hear.”
Looking towards the market-place, Cyril caught sight again of the
forms of the three horsemen. He knew that the Queen and he could not
be distinguishable in the crowd at this distance; but if the
sub-prefect should come up and question them, his suspicious eyes
could not fail to recognise the English lady of the previous day. The
threat of closing the gates was serious enough; but the danger of the
moment was so pressing as to exclude any thought of the future. Cyril
led the way a little longer in the direction they had been taking,
then turned sharply down a narrow back-street, silent and deserted.
Just as they entered it, the sound of horses’ feet became audible in
the street they had that moment left, and the Queen turned pale again,
and clung to Cyril’s arm. She had not understood the words of the
crowd; but she had seen the sub-prefect and his followers, and knew
that their appearance boded no good.
“Keep up!” whispered Cyril; “they may not come down here, or we may
find a doorway or an empty house to hide in. There is a gate open in
that wall. Come on quickly.”
But the gateway to which they hastened was that of a stonemason’s
yard, and the dazzling array of tombstones and obelisks afforded no
chance of concealment. Moreover, the sounds of conversation near at
hand showed them that the proprietor and his men were sitting in the
sun on the inner side of the wall eating their dinner, and it was
impossible to confide in them. But the sound of the horses’ feet was
now close upon them. Once let them turn that corner, and--Cyril paused
and glanced into the Queen’s white face, and an idea came to him
suddenly. The rickety old gate which had first attracted his notice,
and which opened outwards into the street, was swaying and creaking on
its hinges in the light spring breeze. He pulled it forward, pushed
the Queen into the angle of the wall behind it, followed her himself,
and pulling the gate back again, held it fast with all the strength he
could command. Scarcely had they taken their stand when they heard the
horsemen turn the corner and ride down the street. The Queen’s hand
gripped Cyril’s with a painful pressure, but neither of them uttered a
sound. There was a poster on the gate in front of them, evidently
fastened up in the early morning, before the yard was opened, and
Cyril’s eyes studied it without his understanding a word of what it
contained, while his ears were occupied in listening to the enemy
without. They came past the hiding-place, looked in at the yard, and
called out to the proprietor to know whether he had seen any strangers
about, then rode on, knocking now and then at the door of a house, and
questioning the inmates. Then the sounds of their horses’ feet died
gradually away, and Cyril ventured to push the gate forward a little
and look out cautiously in the direction they had taken. There was no
sign of them, and although there was a danger of their returning, it
was all-important to reach the river as soon as possible, and the
fugitives quitted their place of refuge and pursued their way; but not
before Cyril had realised that the bill posted on the gate contained
offers of reward to any one who should kill or capture the abductors
of the King, and that it purported to be signed by the Queen, Bishop
Philaret, and the Mayor of Tatarjé.
“When this is all over, and we are safe again, I shall buy that yard,
and build a memorial church there,” said the Queen, a little
hysterically.
“A most laudable resolution, madame; but at present, permit me to
remind you, we are very far from safe, especially when a presumably
dumb lady speaks German in a hostile town.”
Much confused, she followed him in silence, and they penetrated
through several winding lanes until they came out on the banks of the
river. The first sight that greeted their eyes was the comfortable
form of Fräulein von Staubach, sitting at her ease on a heap of
planks, with the little King asleep in her arms; the next, the bridge,
a short distance to their right, with a strong body of soldiers
guarding its approaches. Several peasant families, coming from the
market-place and wishing to cross, were turned back, and at last Cyril
approached the man who seemed to be the head of one of them, and asked
what the difficulty was.
“They will let no one cross without a passport,” replied the man, “and
as, of course, mine is at home, I have to go and look for the headman
of our village, who travelled to town with us this morning, to come
and identify us as belonging to the commune before we can cross.”
He passed on, and Cyril meditated upon this unwelcome intelligence.
The passport which he had drawn up at Tatarjé, and which had been
countersigned by the sub-prefect, would naturally, under present
circumstances, be worse than useless, and he had buried it in the wood
with the other things abandoned in the morning; but now it appeared
that without a passport, and with no one to testify to their identity,
or rather to disown it, he and his charges would be in a position
every whit as bad as if the compromising document were still in their
possession. It was clearly out of the question to attempt to cross the
river by means of the bridge, and he began to wander down the bank,
followed at a short distance by the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach,
examining the boats that were moored there. Most of them were empty
and untenanted, and for a moment the thought crossed his mind of
stealing one and escaping in it; but he reflected quickly that it was
unlikely such an easy means of evasion should have been left
unguarded, and that so larcenous an attempt would only precipitate the
catastrophe he dreaded. It was necessary, then, to turn to the boats
with people on board, in the hope that it might be possible to arrange
the terms of a passage. After passing several craft in review, Cyril
stopped before a boat loaded with bales of flax, on the deck of which
a shock-headed elderly man was walking up and down and talking angrily
to himself.
“Do you want a hand with your boat, father?” Cyril asked him politely;
but the politeness appeared to be wasted.
“No, young man, I don’t,” was the snappish answer. “Do you think after
I have brought this load of flax down the river for the merchant
Alexandrovics, only to be told by that dog of a Jew his clerk that I
have mistaken the day, and that it was next market-day he meant, that
I am likely to be able to waste money in hiring help?”
“But surely it will be a hard pull against the stream if you have to
take it back?”
“Of course it will; but that is nothing compared with losing a whole
day and having nothing to show for it. At any rate, it is a comfort
that I would not allow my son to leave his work on the farm when he
offered to come and help me, though it will be hard enough with the
loaded boat.”
“But why not land the flax and leave it at the merchant’s house?”
“And find next week that half the bales were under weight, and that
the flax in the rest had been filled with stones and mud by that Jew
thief? A plague on these Jews! It is they who have kidnapped the King,
and his mother knows it. Birds of a feather flock together. You know
that she is secretly a Jewess?”
“The Queen? No?” replied Cyril, with as stupid an expression of wonder
as he could command. But his surprise seemed to offend the old man.
“Where have you been living, not to know that? And now, young man, you
can be off. I have no time to waste in talking to you.”
“I thought you might be willing to put us across the river for a
piastre or two,” said Cyril sadly, jingling the coins in his girdle.
“Put you across? Why didn’t you say so at once, instead of talking
nonsense about helping? But what’s wrong that you don’t cross by the
bridge?”
“The soldiers are making some fuss about passports, and we have none.
Who would take passports on a pilgrimage, to get them stolen? And
there is no one from our village to testify to our identity; but if
you took us on board you would be able to say that we were respectable
people.”
“And how am I to know you are respectable people?”
“If you found us prepared to pay you a certain sum for putting us
across, surely that would show we were respectable?”
“Ah!” cunningly; “that would depend upon the sum. How much?”
“Five piastres,” said Cyril, with the air of one making a tremendous
offer. The sum named was somewhat under a shilling.
“Fifteen,” replied the man in possession, promptly.
“Ten,” said Cyril, with a lack of resolution which was quickly seen
through.
“I can’t do it under fifteen,” was the reply.
“Eleven--twelve--thirteen,” counted Cyril, in a voice of despair.
“That is my last piastre. We must look for some one else.”
“No, I’ll do it for that, since you are on pilgrimage,” cried the old
man, as the would-be passengers turned away. “But you must lend a hand
with the oars, and I can’t put you ashore at the bridge-end, for there
is a danger of smashing the boat against the piers. You must land
higher up.”
“That’s all right. Our road runs alongside the river for some
distance,” returned Cyril. “Are you starting now, or is there time to
buy some food?”
“Do you expect me to waste an hour while you go shopping, young man?
Get on board at once, or lose your money. You have something left
then, have you?”
“Only a few paras.” The para is about the twenty-fifth part of the
piastre. “You don’t want to take our last copper?”
“No; but I would have sold you some bread if I hadn’t eaten all I
brought with me, and I would have given you more for your money than
you would get in any of the town shops.”
“You are not such a bad hand at a bargain yourself,” said Cyril
morosely, as he helped the women on board, and the host began to
loosen the rope by which the boat was moored.
“I shouldn’t do much business if I was,” was the dry answer. “Now what
are those fellows shouting about? I knew they would come and interfere
as soon as an honest man who has done no business all day tries to get
home.”
The persons alluded to were three or four of the soldiers from the
bridge, who came rushing down to the bank when they saw the
preparations for the departure of the boat.
“Your names, all of you? and your village?” cried one of them,
breathlessly. The owner of the boat drew himself up.
“My name and village you can see painted there, if you can read, Mr
Soldier,” he replied; “and I should like to know why I should be
catechised because I allow my son and his wife and child and his
wife’s aunt to find seats on the flax there?”
“You are sure of their identity?” pursued the questioner, rather
confused.
“Sure? My good young man, I think you must have been visiting the
tavern too often lately to ask me such a question. Do you think I
don’t know my own son, and daughter-in-law, and grandson, and--and
sister-in-law? If you have come here to insult honest farmers, I’ll
complain to the magistrates.”
“All right,” the soldier explained hastily. “It’s only a form; but we
were ordered not to let any one pass without it. Good-bye, father, and
your son, and your daughter-in-law, and your grandson, _and_ your
great-grandmother’s cousin’s aunt, good-bye!”
“Thracia is going to ruin,” observed the farmer solemnly to Cyril, as
they got out the oars, “when any young jackanapes in uniform thinks he
can make fun of a man old enough to be his grandfather. Move out of
the way, young woman.” It was the Queen whom he addressed, and she
turned mutely and pointed to her tongue. He looked at her with
something like disgust.
“He wants you to move to the next bale, Anna,” said Cyril, in
Thracian, but with an imperative gesture which she understood and
obeyed.
“Dumb, is she?” grunted the old man. “Is she deaf as well?”
“She can understand me, as you see,” returned Cyril; “but I doubt
whether you could make her hear.”
“How do you make her understand?”
“How does one make a dog understand?” asked Cyril, and the farmer
laughed brutally.
“Boy dumb too?” he asked.
“Not a bit of it; only asleep. I would wake him up and let you hear
how he can talk, but that he is tired and would be troublesome.”
The old man laughed again, and they rowed on in silence for a time.
Then he said suddenly, “If you have been on pilgrimage, I suppose you
saw the tomb of St Gabriel at Tatarjé? What is it like?”
“Of course we saw it,” returned Cyril indignantly, and he began to
describe the shrine, which he and the other members of the Court had
visited as the only show-place in Tatarjé. But his hearer’s attention
wandered.
“What did you want to take _her_ on pilgrimage for?” he asked, jerking
his head towards the Queen. “Did it do her any good?”
“It hasn’t given her a voice, as you see. But the fact was, I wanted
to take the boy, and he can’t look after himself. Besides, she wanted
to come.”
“Ah, you don’t know how to manage a wife. The idea of letting a woman
go anywhere because she wished it!” and the old man turned chuckling
to his oars again, and chuckled until the boat arrived at the opposite
bank.
“Now then, young man, out you go, and your relations too,” he said.
“Don’t you mean to take us any farther?” asked Cyril, in a tone of
dire dismay.
“For thirteen piastres? No, my son. If you could make up the fifteen,
now----”
But Cyril shook his head, and began to make fast the boat, preparatory
to helping his charges to land. They would walk along the bank for a
little, in order to throw the old man off the scent; but it was not
worth while to run an additional risk for the sake of hoodwinking him
further.
“I say!” cried their late host, as he pushed the boat off again,
“surely you don’t carry your own parcels when you’ve got your wife
with you?”
“How could I do anything but carry the bundle in the town, when she
was gaping and staring about so that I knew she would drop it or let
it be stolen?” returned Cyril sullenly. “Here, Anna, make yourself
useful,” and he handed the parcel of rugs to the Queen. She gave him a
look of astonished reproach, which he answered by a frown intended to
counsel prudence. The old man, who had caught her expression but not
his, laughed loudly.
“Lazy!” he cried. “After all, my son, I see that there is some
advantage in having a dumb wife. If yours had possessed a tongue, you
would certainly be making acquaintance with the rough side of it at
this moment. But you and I know that there is nothing like a good
thick stick for all of them--is there?”
“He is a detestable old man,” said Fräulein von Staubach to Cyril in
a low voice, as they walked along the bank, the farmer’s loud chuckles
still reaching them faintly across the water; “but I am sorry you
thought it well to deceive him about the money. It would have been
much pleasanter to go a little farther in the boat.”
“But I assure you there was no deception,” returned Cyril. “That was
absolutely my last piastre. It is true that I have some gold; but if I
had let him see it he would have been convinced at once that we were
no better than we should be. And as for going farther in the boat, it
would only have been waste of time. As soon as we are out of sight of
our friend, we will turn off into the hills, and look for the
charcoal-burner’s glen.”
But it was some time before this was possible, for the road ran
parallel with the river, and every now and then their late host rested
on his oars for a minute to take breath, and shouted some remark to
Cyril. It was evident that he would have liked his help again in
rowing, although he would not confess it, and was trying to tempt him
to produce some hidden store of coin out of which to pay for a longer
passage. But at length the bank became steep and rocky, and the road
turned more inland, and Cyril waved farewell joyfully to the old man,
and took a furtive look at the map to ascertain the right course. But
the road was so completely deserted that he might have spread out the
map and consulted it for an hour without danger, and he turned to
relieve the Queen of the burden she had been carrying.
“We will return to the path we passed a little way back, madame. So
far as I can make out, it leads just in the direction we wish to take.
Permit me to carry the rugs.”
But to his surprise she looked him full in the face without a word,
and declined to give up the bundle. Thinking that she wished him to
relieve Fräulein von Staubach, he held out his arms for the little
King, who allowed himself to be transferred from one bearer to the
other without even waking. Going on in advance to find the path, Cyril
turned to wait for the ladies, and observed in astonishment that the
Queen was still carrying the rugs, in spite of all Fräulein von
Staubach’s attempts to get possession of the bundle. Moreover, she
still refused to speak, and Cyril led the way up the hill in silence,
deciding in his own mind that she had taken it into her head to feel
angry at being supposed to be dumb, and was trying to punish him by
keeping up the pretence when it was no longer necessary.
The path led on and on, first uphill and then down, through patches of
forest in sheltered spots and again over bare uplands; and still Cyril
kept on his way, with occasional halts for the purpose of consulting
the map, and still the Queen toiled on with the great bundle in her
arms, although she could scarcely drag one foot after the other for
weariness. Cyril was provoked by her obstinacy, and determined not to
make any further advances. If she chose to behave like a sulky child,
and punish herself, she should be allowed to do so. It was growing
dusk by this time, and when the path led down into a wood larger than
any they had passed hitherto, the trees overhead made it almost dark;
but Cyril’s spirits rose, for he knew that they must be approaching
the charcoal-burner’s hut. Coming to a spot where the fall of an old
tree had brought down two or three others with it, making a little
break in the blackness overhead, he advised the ladies to sit down and
rest, while he went on to reconnoitre. There was no reason to suspect
the loyalty of old Minics, since Paschics had declared him worthy of
trust; but it was just possible that he might have visitors, whose
discretion could not be so comfortably relied upon.
Still following the path, which was now barely distinguishable, Cyril
came out at last on the edge of a cleared space, sloping down to a
small lake. Close in front of him was a hut built rudely of logs and
branches, and before it a large fire, beside which an old man was
sitting with his dog. As he came forward, they both rose and looked at
him, the dog suspiciously, the man with a good deal of interest.
“You are Yosip Minics, I think?” asked Cyril. “We are travellers who
have been recommended to your kindness by your cousin’s son, Lyof
Paschics.”
The old man nodded. “I have been looking out for you,” he said. “I
went down into Ortojuk this morning to buy my week’s supplies, and I
had word by a sure hand that Lyof might be here soon wanting help.
When I heard what they were all saying in the town about the King, I
knew what the message meant,” and he glanced not unkindly at King
Michael, who, awakened by the voices, was now almost overbalancing
himself in his efforts to reach down and pat the dog.
“But what do you know about us?”
“Only this,” and the charcoal-burner brought out a dirty envelope from
his hut, and held the stamp towards Cyril in the firelight. “One can’t
very well go wrong when his Majesty’s portrait is so close at hand,
can one?”
“You certainly have an advantage there,” said Cyril with a laugh.
“It’s a good thing for us that other people haven’t thought of it.”
“Oh, I had my message from Lyof’s mother to help me, you see. But what
have you done with the lad?”
“I am sorry to say he was arrested in Ortojuk this afternoon.”
“But the royal party are safe? That is all right, then. He has done
his duty, and God and the saints will see that he comes to no harm.
But put the child down on this wolfskin here--I will look after
him--and fetch the women. They are not far off, I suppose?”
“No, I will go back for them,” and Cyril retraced his steps, wondering
the less, now that he had seen this shrewd and kindly old man, at the
curious conditions of Thracian life, which had given Paschics a
relative so low down in the social scale. But as he approached the
spot where he had left the ladies, he forgot all about the
charcoal-burner, for he could distinctly hear the Queen sobbing, and
Fräulein von Staubach trying to comfort her in German. His first
thought was that they had been tracked by the enemy and taken
prisoners; but almost at the same moment he saw that there was no one
there but themselves.
“I fear that you have been alarmed, madame,” he said, hurrying
forward; “but I assure you that I have not been longer than I could
help. The charcoal-burner is most willing to shelter and help us, and
I have left the King in his charge while I came back for you.”
“I have not been alarmed,” said the Queen, rising stiffly. “Give me
that bundle of rugs, if you please; I prefer to carry it.”
“Unhappily it is already bespoken, madame. May I be permitted----?”
He offered his arm to assist her, but she drew herself away. “I wish
to carry the rugs,” she repeated, but her voice failed her.
“Madame!” said Fräulein von Staubach, imploringly.
“Be quiet, Sophie. I know that it is my own fault. I have placed
myself in a false and degrading position, and Count Mortimer takes
advantage of it to humiliate me.”
“Madame!” protested the maligned Cyril, in utter astonishment.
“You know it is true. You rejoiced when you ordered me, in the
presence of that horrible old man, to carry the bundle.”
“You must know that it was merely to avert suspicion, madame.”
“It was not. You were repaying to me all the humiliations I have ever
inflicted upon you. I saw it in your eyes.”
“Upon my honour, madame, the step was more painful to me than to your
Majesty, but it was necessary to save the situation.”
“At my expense. Oh, I have put myself into your power, Count, I know
that. But I did not expect----”
Her voice failed again, and Fräulein von Staubach cast a beseeching
glance at Cyril, to which he responded instantly:
“If I may not have the honour of assisting you, madame, I will fetch
the charcoal-burner; but you cannot stay here all night. Old Minics is
rather grimy, but if you prefer his help to mine----”
Without a word the Queen took his arm, and he piloted her the rest of
the way. Once arrived at the hut, she was too much exhausted to do
more than partake of the soup and black bread which the host had
prepared, and then sit leaning against the wall of the hut while
Fräulein von Staubach made the best she could, with the aid of the
rugs, of the primitive arrangements for the night. When the little
King had been carried indoors, and the two ladies had also retired,
Cyril and his host sat outside by the fire, smoking. The
charcoal-burner had accepted, out of politeness, one of his guest’s
cigars; but it was evident that he preferred his own clay pipe and
coarse tobacco, to which he betook himself with zest as soon as he had
finished it. Under ordinary circumstances, Cyril would have welcomed
this divergence of tastes, since his remaining cigars were now very
few in number; but to-night he felt too much depressed to be comforted
even by tobacco, and he smoked on moodily until a hand was laid upon
his shoulder, and he turned to find Fräulein von Staubach stooping
over him.
“I wanted to ask you whether you were intending that we should
continue our journey to-morrow, Count?” she said.
“I had thought of it, Fräulein; but you must surely know that I
should not venture to recommend any plan of my own in opposition to
the slightest wish of her Majesty. Her knowledge of affairs----”
“You are piqued, Count, and you speak with unnecessary sarcasm. Her
Majesty is asleep, and has no idea that I am consulting you; but the
fact is that she is quite incapable of performing a farther march
without rest. Her feet are so fearfully blistered that I cannot
imagine how she succeeded in getting here at all. Every step must have
been agony to her.”
“It would be quite possible to rest to-morrow, Fräulein. The people
would have more leisure to stare at us if we travelled on Sunday, and
we might find it difficult to obtain food. By all means inform her
Majesty that you will not leave the valley until Monday morning.”
“You speak as though you were intending to abandon us, Count.”
“I hope that the abandonment will be only a temporary one, Fräulein;
but I fear that her Majesty would derive little benefit from her day
of rest if I were in the neighbourhood.”
“Then what do you propose to do?”
“Go out into the world--back to Ortojuk, perhaps--and see what is
going on, and whether our schemes have been penetrated.”
“This is quite unnecessary, Count, and you know it. You are going
wilfully into danger--exposing us to danger, even--because you cannot
make allowances for her Majesty’s hasty words spoken in a moment of
weariness.”
“Make allowances? I have been doing nothing else since I have been
sitting here. I was a little surprised at the moment, I grant; but
since then I have reflected that I was a fool not to expect just what
I got. It is not my first experience of her Majesty’s gratitude, you
will remember.”
“Count, you are cruelly unjust. Think of the trials which have beset
the Queen since we left Tatarjé; of all the vicissitudes----”
“I have thought of them all, Fräulein. The only thing I had not
expected was to be abused for what I had not done, and for that I was
a fool, as I tell you. Are you not satisfied with that?”
“Satisfied, when every word you say brings an accusation against her
Majesty? You are casting the blame on the woman, as the men always
do.”
“May I ask whether you think I am the person to blame, Fräulein?”
Fräulein von Staubach appeared to find the question a hard one to
answer, for it was some time before she said unwillingly, as she went
back into the hut, “No, Count; you are not to blame, and certainly her
Majesty is not. It is circumstances.”
“Circumstances!” muttered Cyril to himself somewhat later, as he
crawled on hands and knees into the little lean-to which he had
assisted old Minics to build as a kind of spare bedroom to his log
mansion, and made himself as comfortable as he could on a couch of
branches very imperfectly covered with a rug. “That is what the
Baroness said--‘I am not afraid of either the Queen or you; but I am
very much afraid of circumstances.’ How long ago was it--a hundred
thousand years? Is it possible that it was only the night before last?
It feels as if I had lived whole lifetimes since then--since she said
she trusted me and would obey me. And a pretty farce it is! She will
obey me when she likes, and when she doesn’t she tries to make me feel
like a blackguard for giving her orders.”
He laughed angrily, and turned over on his unrestful bed. But sleep
would not come to him, in spite of the fatigues of the day and the
disturbed character of his last two nights. The Queen’s face floated
before him--now white and terror-stricken, as when they had hidden
behind the gate; now rosy and confused, as he had seen it when she had
made some dangerous blunder; now lifted to his in eager interest, and
again suffused with tears, as when he had come upon her in the
wood,--never twice the same, and at no time strictly beautiful,
perhaps, but always fascinating from its ever-changing play of
expression.
“Her infinite variety!” he said to himself sarcastically, remembering
the line he had once quoted to Drakovics with reference to her;
“infinite fickleness, I call it--wish she would cultivate a good
serviceable workaday frame of mind, and stay in it, for once. And
why--why, when I have been bothered with her all day, I should want to
be thinking of her all night, I don’t know----” He stretched himself
vigorously, and came into such violent contact with one of the poles
of the lean-to as almost to send the structure flying; then resigned
himself to lying passive and watching the stars through the crevices
of the roof. “I really could not be more taken up with her if I was in
love with her. Why--well, and what if I am in love with her?”
“In love--and with her!” The idea was so ludicrous, and at the same
time so unwelcome, that Cyril could not contemplate it lying down. He
sat up, leaning against the supporting wall of the hut, and regardless
of the risk of fire, lighted another cigar to calm his nerves, and
thus fortified, prepared to face the situation. That he--he, Cyril
Mortimer, of all men--should have fallen in love, and that with a lady
who had not merely done her utmost to testify her dislike to him, but
who could, and doubtless would, ruin his career with a ruthless hand
if she should gain the slightest inkling of the state of his feelings,
was too utterly absurd. It must be that he possessed a double
personality, and one self loved the Queen, while the other not only
perceived how fatal to all his chances in life such an attachment
would be, but actually disliked, despised, and disapproved of
Ernestine and all her doings. But--double personality or not--he was
in love with her, and, so far as he could tell, for no earthly reason.
This consideration was peculiarly trying to Cyril. As he had told
Caerleon long ago, he had had many love-affairs, but to have called
them _affaires du cœur_ would have been a serious mistake. They were
purely _affaires de la tête_, political or social speculations
deliberately entered upon with an eye to the realisation of an
underlying purpose. Cyril undertook them with the same zest that
characterised him in his schemes of a more purely political nature,
and enjoyed them fully, without once losing his head. The ladies
concerned enjoyed them also, of course--such of them, at least, as
understood that a _tendresse_, and not a _grande passion_, was the
utmost to be expected from him--and the affairs had never yet afforded
occasion for scandal. Cyril was not the man to compromise any
woman--and far less himself--unless he was playing for very high
stakes indeed.
And now he was honestly in love--just as Caerleon had been! The
thought was so exquisitely absurd that he laughed until the tears came
into his eyes. No, not like Caerleon, very far from it. It had not
been Caerleon’s misfortune to fall in love with his sovereign; his
difficulty was just the other way about. And the avowal that his love
was returned, the hope that one day he might call the loved one his
own--these things, for which Caerleon had lived, Cyril did not even
desire. If he should ever be so unfortunate as to come to desire them,
it would be the signal for him to leave Thracia, and take his
susceptible heart to some other country, where Queens were less
attractive, or, at any rate, less given to demand knight-errantry from
their followers. His susceptible heart!--the term in connection with
himself struck him as so ridiculous that he began to picture himself
as laying that heart at Ernestine’s feet. What would she do?--turn
away from it in disgust, or take it up in her disdainful little hands
and throw it down again, just for the pleasure of seeing it break? But
that pleasure she should not enjoy. He could not secure his heart in
his own keeping, it seemed; but at least he could prevent any one else
from guessing that he had lost it. He smiled again as he thought how
easy the task would be. There was not a man in the kingdom who would
not be suspected of such folly before himself, not a man to whom the
Queen was less likely to condescend by way of inspiring in him such
dreams.
“I’ll go on,” he said to himself, “and so long as she treats me
decently I’ll stay and look after her; but if she makes herself
disagreeable I shall cut, and before I go I’ll tell her! That will
punish her,” and happy in the thought, and also conscious that his
cigar had gone out, he lay down again, and slept peacefully.
He did not wake until late in the morning; but the host was the only
member of the party who was before him. He was busy making up the fire
as Cyril went down to the lake for a hasty toilet, and received him
with a friendly smile when he returned.
“Can you let me have a snack of some kind, Minics, before the ladies
come out?” Cyril asked him. “I want to be off without their knowing
it.”
“But where are you going?” asked the charcoal-burner.
“Out along the way we came yesterday, to reconnoitre.”
“But that is foolhardy,” said the old man solemnly.
“That is just how I feel--foolhardy--or perhaps restless, rather. But
I don’t intend to run any risks. I shall stop on this side of the
river and make sure that the soldiers are gone from the Ortojuk end of
the bridge before I attempt to cross. If they are there still, I shall
come back.”
“But what foolishness are you contemplating? You have some silly idea
of gaining glory by running into danger.”
“I assure you that you were never more mistaken in your life. It is
easy to see that you don’t know me, or you wouldn’t make such a
suggestion. My errand is the very prosaic one of discovering whether
we have been tracked across, or not. If I find that they think we are
still on the other side, I shall venture on hiring a boat to-morrow,
for the sake of the ladies, who are really unfit to walk. But if they
are looking for us on this side, or along the river, walk we must.”
“Yes. I can show you a path across the hills, which is fairly safe,
but very rough. Well, go and make your inquiries, my son. I wish I had
something better than rye-bread and ewe-cheese to give you to take
with you.”
“Nothing could be better,” said Cyril cheerfully. “Good-bye. Present
my respects to the ladies when they appear.”
But as he turned towards the forest-path, stuffing the bread and
cheese into his girdle as he walked, the Queen ran out suddenly from
the hut, and caught his arm. She had no shoes on, and her feet were
bound up in pocket-handkerchiefs; but it was evident that she had
quite forgotten the fact.
“Where are you going, Count?” she asked imperiously.
“On a voyage of discovery, madame.”
“That means that you are rushing into danger?”
“The experiences of the last few days have made danger appear quite
unexciting, madame--even monotonous.”
“Do you think I am a child, Count, that you try to put me off with
such tales? You are not to go.”
“Your Majesty must know that it is my dearest duty to obey any wish of
yours. Am I to consider myself under arrest?”
“Count!” she stamped her foot and burst into tears, “you are cruel,
ungentlemanly! Is it generous to recall to me what I said last night?
You will not make the slightest allowance for a woman who was half out
of her mind with fatigue and the dangers of the day. How can you be so
unjust?”
“Madame!” remonstrated Cyril, in alarm, “you mistake me. If I have
given you cause to address such a reproach to me, I humbly entreat
your pardon.”
“Now you are putting me in the wrong again,” she said, half-laughing
through her tears. “Do not let us quarrel, Count. I do not command you
to stay here, but I entreat you not to leave us to-day. Think of the
fearful suspense we should endure--waiting hour after hour for your
return. You don’t believe me,” catching the involuntarily sarcastic
look upon his face. “Well, then, think of our horrible isolation; left
here without you. What should we do if the enemy traced us to this
spot? How could you answer to your conscience for abandoning us? Ah!
you will believe that, I see. You will permit us to have some fear for
ourselves, if we may not feel any anxiety for the safety of our
friend, our leader. _Mille remercîments, M. le comte!_ Come, you will
not go? The charcoal-burner is going to church. He will make any
inquiries with far less danger than you. You will remain here?”
“Little witch!” said Cyril to himself. “What does she mean by looking
so distractingly pretty? I shall kiss her in another minute, and then
there will be a nice row! I couldn’t very well plead that it was my
other personality which had done it.” Aloud he answered formally,
“Your commands shall be obeyed, madame. I am your servant.”
“You are not!” she cried. “Never say that again, Count. Do you think I
am a stone, a block of wood--that I have no feelings, no gratitude?
You are a dear and faithful friend to my son and myself, as you were
to my husband; and if we ever return to--to everyday life, you shall
see that I am not ungrateful. Come, I ask you as a friend not to leave
us lonely here. You will not refuse?”
“You do me too much honour, madame. Naturally I will remain.”
“You are not enthusiastic, Count. You think that I shall quarrel again
with you in an hour or so?”
This was exactly what Cyril did think, but he was not so rude as to
tell her so. “If you have any further wishes, madame, pray command
me,” he said.
“Yes, there is one thing,” she said quickly, trying to hide a little
disappointment which had crept into her tone. “What are they saying
about us in the world all this time? What of M. Drakovics?”
“In the suddenness of our departure from Tatarjé, madame, I ventured
to take the steps which seemed to me to be advisable without
consulting your Majesty. To my servant, who was proceeding to
Bellaviste in the train supposed to be conveying me, and who is a
staunch fellow, I intrusted a note to be given to M. Drakovics
immediately on his arrival. In this note I informed his Excellency of
the unfortunate events which compelled you to leave Tatarjé at once
with the King, and added that you would travel _incognito_ until you
reached the castle of Prince Mirkovics. These facts I begged him not
to make public, lest the conspirators should have sympathisers in
Bellaviste; and I requested him also not to attempt to put down the
rebellion by force until he knew that your safety was assured. I have
no doubt that he is publishing daily special Gazettes detailing your
Majesty’s journey by the usual route, with particulars of the
decorations and illuminations at the towns passed on the way.”
“To throw the public off the scent?” asked the Queen, laughing, in
spite of herself, at the idea. “But surely we are losing time
frightfully? The rebellion will spread and consolidate itself while we
are wandering about in these forests.”
“Your safety, madame, and that of his Majesty, is the paramount
consideration. When M. Drakovics knows you are safe, he can put down
the rebellion at his leisure. Any step that would direct attention to
this district, or drive the insurgents from Tatarjé to take refuge
among these hills, would be a grave mistake. And even at the worst, we
are losing very little time, although I cannot flatter myself that my
plans have succeeded as they would have done with ordinary luck. By
to-morrow night--in four days from our leaving Tatarjé--I hope to see
you in safety. Either by the river, if it proves prudent to hire a
boat, or by a path across the hills which Minics can show us, we ought
to be able to reach Karajevo long before sunset; and once there we are
among friends, for Bishop Andreas is the brother of Prince Mirkovics.”
“It is my turn to ask your pardon, Count. Your foresight is
marvellous. If we reach Karajevo safely, I shall begin to feel that
there is something supernatural about the way in which your plans
succeed in spite of all kinds of apparent failure. Well, I shall not
be altogether sorry to leave this wandering life in the greenwood; and
yet---- There has been much, very much, that was delightful in it,
and, best of all, it has shown me a true friend whom I have hitherto
been too blind to recognise.”
She went back into the hut, leaving Cyril speechless under the
witchery of the radiant smile she turned upon him. As he shook
himself, metaphorically speaking, to get rid of the spell, he heard
Fräulein von Staubach say with some asperity--
“Was it needful to take quite so long to make your peace, madame? I do
not know what it will lead Count Mortimer to think?”
“Think? Why, what should he think?” asked the Queen sharply.
“Exactly,” reflected Cyril; “what should he think? No; that further
complication is mercifully avoided--although there are moments when
one is inclined to wish that it was not.”