“WE TWO STOOD THERE WITH NEVER A THIRD.”
“You make me absolutely miserable, madame,” Fräulein von Staubach
was protesting vigorously. “Count, I am sure you will agree with me
that her Majesty ought not to leave her bed. Pray exercise your
influence----”
“What has Count Mortimer to do with it?” asked the Queen, as she
hobbled into the outer room on her bandaged feet. “He is not my
private physician. Your influence is never exerted on the side of
laziness, is it, Count?”
She spoke quickly, and with a little hardness in her voice, doing her
best not to look at Cyril. He knew that she was trying to assure
herself of the purely imaginary character of the events of her dream,
and that she found it difficult to do so; but, thanks to Fräulein von
Staubach’s warning, he was able to meet her without betraying any
self-consciousness. The situation had even a touch of piquancy for
him, as he arranged a comfortable seat for her near the fire, and
brought out the remains of the last night’s loaf, which formed the
only breakfast available; but when he found her eyes fixed on him in
mingled confusion and anxiety, he did his best to set her at her ease
by diverting her mind to other topics.
“Indeed, Fräulein,” he replied, “I cannot say that I am sorry her
Majesty is well enough to rise. You must remember that we are not out
of danger yet, and for all we know there may be another day’s tramping
before us.”
“More walking, Count?” asked the Queen in dismay.
“It will be all downhill to-day, madame, at any rate.”
“Ah, I am afraid you found me very troublesome last night--but that is
just what I thought you at the time. I have a vague impression,” she
added, turning to Fräulein von Staubach, “that Count Mortimer was
helping me up the mountain, and that he insisted on talking when I
wanted to be quiet. I know that he enunciated the most outrageous
doctrines, for I felt he was trying to see how far he could go without
making me contradict him, and I took a perverse pleasure in remaining
silent.”
“I congratulate you on your skill in concealing your feelings,
madame,” said Cyril, with a bow. “I did you the injustice of imagining
that you were nearly asleep.”
“Oh no, I was not asleep then,” she replied hurriedly, blushing as she
spoke; “but I fear that your thinking so proves that it must have been
difficult to get me up the hill. Did you find me very heavy?”
“I could wish that you had been heavier, madame. The greater the
weight the greater the honour, in such a case.”
“That is a double-barrelled insult, Count. Do you imply that my weight
was great, or that the honour was small?”
“Madame, there is some one coming,” interrupted Fräulein von
Staubach, who had been listening with evident displeasure to this
exchange of _badinage_; and almost as she spoke the door opened, and
the old servant entered.
“You are up, then?” she said, surveying the party cheerfully. “I am
glad of that, for all morning I have been afraid that the master would
come and rouse you up and turn you out. It’s much better to get your
breakfast quietly before starting. I have brought you another loaf, by
the way, and a pair of soft slippers for your wife, poor soul!” she
added to Cyril, who felt for once devoutly thankful that the Queen did
not understand Thracian. “I saw that her feet were all cut and
blistered last night.”
“You see, Sophie, it is a good thing that I got up, if we are to be
turned out,” said the Queen to Fräulein von Staubach, when the gift
had been duly tried on, and the old woman thanked with great
heartiness, much to her disgust.
“There, there!” she said. “I suppose one may give away a pair of old
slippers without being supposed to have done anything great. I don’t
know whether it makes any difference to you, young man; but when I
looked down at Karajevo just now, I saw a crowd streaming out of the
gate and coming towards the mountain. I haven’t an idea who you may
be; but you know best whether you are in any danger.”
“Many thanks,” said Cyril. “Can you add to your kindness by telling us
the nearest way to Prince Mirkovics’s castle from here?”
“Why, what a pity you weren’t here yesterday, so as to travel in the
good Bishop’s company! He passed here about noon, with just two or
three priests and people, and gave me his blessing as kindly as you
please. Which way did he go? Why, he took the path down the mountains,
of course. It winds a good deal; you can see it again down there,” she
had drawn Cyril to the door, and was pointing down the rocky slope,
“and when you reach the bottom, you have to go on past the waterfall,
where the river comes down from the mountains, and keep on along the
bank for three or four miles, until you get to the bridge. When you
have crossed that, you are in Prince Mirkovics’s country, and if you
go straight on you must come to the castle before very long.”
“But all this will take a long time,” said Cyril, in dismay, thinking
of the pursuit which was in all probability already on foot, and of
the Queen’s difficulty in walking; “is there no place where we could
find shelter before reaching the castle?”
“Shelter means a hiding-place, I suppose?” said the old woman
shrewdly. “No, don’t be afraid; I won’t tell tales. Well, there may be
one, and there may not. When you come to the falls, you will see a
tumbledown old house built beside them. It was a saw-mill once, but it
doesn’t work now. Old Giorgei who lives there is mad, but you won’t
find it out unless you start him upon politics. His two sons took part
in that conspiracy years ago, when the English King (our Carlino, you
know) was driven out, and they were both killed. The eldest, who
worked the saw-mill, was killed in the fighting, and the other, a
soldier in garrison at Tatarjé, though he escaped at the time, was
taken and shot afterwards. But if you don’t mention politics or
Drakovics, the old man will be all right, though there’s no saying
what he will do if you stir him up. Holy Peter! there’s the master
coming, and what will he say to me? You keep him in talk, there’s a
good young man, while I get back to the house.”
“Tell the women to get ready to start,” Cyril called after her as she
scurried back into the room, and he went forward to meet the elderly
man who was approaching--a lean, bow-legged individual, with small
eyes and a quavering voice, who cried out angrily as he came in sight
of the broken gate--
“What does this mean, fellow? How dare you destroy my property in this
way?”
“You forget that it was contrary to the law for the gate to be locked
yesterday evening,” returned Cyril. “Inns are supposed to be open
night and day. However,” he added, remembering, as the old man grew
purple with rage, that it was not advisable to make enemies, “I am
willing to pay for the damage, since you sent down the key for us
after all. Ten piastres will buy the wood and pay a carpenter for
making you a much better gate than this one, and I will add five
piastres for the accommodation you found for us. But I warn you that
if you lock the new gate to keep out travellers who may die in the
snow, it will be the dearest gate you ever had.”
“What do you mean, fellow? Do you venture to threaten me?” stuttered
the innkeeper, his fingers closing greedily over the coins. “You are
much too impudent for a peasant.”
“Then perhaps I am a prophet. I may tell you that when I give myself
the trouble of prophesying, I generally take good care that the
prophecy comes true; so remember. Good day.”
And having attained his object of securing time for the old servant’s
retreat by mystifying her master, Cyril returned into the little house
and summoned the ladies to start on their journey. The Queen was quite
unable to walk without assistance, but she persisted in accepting as
little help as possible from him. Indeed she did her best to enlist
Fräulein von Staubach as her supporter, and only consented to
dispense with her services when Cyril pointed out that it was
impossible for him to carry both the little King and the bundle of
rugs; but that if Fräulein von Staubach would take charge of his
Majesty, he himself could carry the rugs and find an arm to lend the
Queen. In this order they started from the hotel, the proprietor
watching them morosely as they passed through the broken gate, and
took their way down the mountain. The sun had thawed the surface of
the snow a little, and it was less slippery than the night before, but
their progress was necessarily very slow. The Queen set her teeth and
limped along with dogged resolution; but Cyril noticed that before
long she forgot her reluctance to make use of his support, and
clutched his arm tightly. Matters became somewhat better when the snow
was left behind, and the spirits of the wanderers rose as they plodded
down the path, which, as the old servant had said, pursued a very
winding course.
“Why, we can see the hotel again from here!” said Fräulein von
Staubach at last, looking back at the snowy heights they had left.
“Oh, Count, look! They are there!”
Cyril glanced up, and saw distinctly a dark moving mass, showing
clearly against the snow, coming over the crest of the pass. It could
only be a crowd of men, and it was in the highest degree unlikely that
such a body should be crossing the mountains with any object in view
but that of pursuit, but the terror-stricken faces of the two women
warned him to be cheerful.
“We shall be obliged to turn aside and interview old Giorgei, I see,”
he said; “but there is no need to be frightened. These people may not
be after us, and even if they are, it is quite possible we have not
been seen. And if they are looking for us, and have seen us, we have
a good start, and plenty of time to get hidden before they can come
up.”
“But what if the old man will not hide us?” asked the Queen.
“Then we must demand his help in the name of St Gabriel, madame. Did
you know that this waterfall was called St Gabriel’s Leap? The
charcoal-burner told me the legend. It seems that St Gabriel had one
of his numerous hermitages here--for an ascetic he must have enjoyed a
wonderful amount of change of air and scene--and one day the Roumis
came to hunt him out, intending to kill him. He saw them approaching,
and immediately hastened to the edge of the falls and dashed into the
water. They expected to see his body washed up in the pool below; but
while they were watching for it, they were electrified to behold the
saint himself standing on the opposite side of the falls, with his
clothes perfectly dry--at least, so the story says. He stayed long
enough to bestow his curse on them in dumb show, and then disappeared
among the rocks. There was no doubt that it was the man himself, and
not an apparition, for he lived some years after, and at last fell
into Roumi hands and was tortured to death, no miracle intervening on
that occasion. Still, I only wish we had him here now, to let us into
his secret.”
“But how do you think he got across?” asked the Queen.
“I should imagine that he had made a careful study beforehand of the
rocks in the waterfall, with an eye to emergencies--perhaps had even
practised crossing by jumping from one to another. There may be clouds
of spray which would hide him until he had got over; but he must have
needed a cool head, at any rate.”
“But what about his dry clothes?”
“Oh, that I fear we must put down as a pious addition of later ages,
unless he kept a spare suit in some convenient cave on the other side.
But listen; don’t you hear the sound of the falls?”
“Trains!” cried the little King, with great delight.
“I wish it was!” said Cyril. “Now, madame, I think we had better leave
the road. Unfortunately it lies so straight before us that when the
enemy reach this point they will be able to see at once that we are
not upon it; but they will be obliged to spend some little time in
hunting about to find out where we turned off. There seems to be some
sort of a path through this wood, and it leads straight in the
direction of the waterfall, by the sound.”
The path, if such it could be called, was not wide enough for two
people to walk abreast, and Cyril had some difficulty in making a way
for the Queen; but they penetrated through the wood at last, and came
out on a cleared space. In front of them was the waterfall, dashing
down from a lofty ridge of rocks high up on the left hand, while on
the right the water swirled in a deep dark pool at the foot of the
cascade. Perched on the very side of the fall, and partially
overhanging the water, was a weatherbeaten house, partly built of
stone and partly of wood, through the dilapidated windows of which the
remains of machinery were visible. Other rusty pieces of mechanism
were strewn about the clearing, mingled with a number of logs, some
freshly hewn, others mouldering into decay, while an abandoned
cart-track, all grown over with grass, followed the slope of the
ground on the right, and no doubt joined the road a little way below
the pool. The only living occupant of this deserted clearing was an
old man with a shaggy beard and long grey hair, who was sitting idly
on one of the logs, with an adze in his hand. He did not appear to
take any notice of the intruders; but as Cyril approached to speak to
him, he turned and addressed him instead--
“You are come at last, then? I have been watching for you a long
time.”
“Why? do you know who we are?” asked Cyril, taken by surprise.
“Know you? You are the Englishman, Count Mortimer, and those with you
are the wife and child of your master, Otto Georg.”
“You certainly have the advantage of us, father.”
The old man shot a disdainful glance at him. “I saw you carrying the
sword before Otto Georg when he entered Bellaviste in state after his
marriage with the girl there, and again when that child yonder was
baptised. And you expect me not to know you or her, because you are
dressed up as peasants!”
“Well, that saves us the trouble of an introduction,” said Cyril
easily. “Yes, Father Giorgei, the Queen and her son are at your door,
and claim your protection against the enemies who are pursuing them.”
“My protection!” with a grin, which changed suddenly to a snarl of
malevolence. “And they ask it through you, of all people, never
guessing that they might as well employ Drakovics himself as their
messenger! You ask for my protection--you, who murdered my two sons!”
“I think you must be labouring under some misapprehension,” said
Cyril, much disturbed by the turn which the conversation was taking.
“There is no misapprehension,” returned the old man, more calmly. “You
are the brother of the Englishman Carlino, whom my sons had sworn to
drive out. I saw you first with your brother at Bellaviste--it was the
day that the mad Scythian girl tried to kill him, and we thought all
our plans were wrecked. My son Pavel pointed you out to me. ‘Look,’ he
said, ‘it is Carlino that speaks, but Kyrillo puts the words into his
mouth. It is of no use killing one--they must both go.’ Then the
fighting began, and Pavel was killed when Drakovics and Otto Georg
retook Bellaviste; but I rejoiced in all my sorrow for my son, because
I thought that at any rate Carlino and Kyrillo were both dead also.
But you were not dead, and you came back with Otto Georg; and my son
Dmitri, who had escaped and hidden himself when the Tatarjé patriots
were cut to pieces by the German, was discovered and tried and shot.
Both my sons are dead, and you are living still, though their deaths
lie at your door.”
The old man’s voice was raised, and his sunken eyes gleamed as he
flung the charge at Cyril, who betrayed no emotion. “Let us look at
this thing sensibly,” he said. “I am no more responsible than any
other member of the Government for your sons’ deaths; but I don’t want
to shirk what responsibility there is. Your sons, on your own showing,
tried to kill me; but matters fell out the other way. It was a fair
fight, and the chances were equal, except that your sons worked
underground.”
“And that my sons were in the right!” shouted the father. “They were
patriots and Orthodox, while you are a miserable Lutheran foreigner.”
“That is undeniable,” said Cyril; “but setting myself and your grudge
against me aside, let me ask you not to lose any more time before
providing a shelter for the King and Queen and their attendant. You
can’t wish to wreak your vengeance on two helpless women and a child.
The Queen was a young girl at home in Germany when your sons’ deaths
occurred, and the King was not born until several years after.
Whatever the guilt is, they cannot be involved in it.”
“They should not come to ask my help with you in their company.”
“Leave me out of the question, I tell you; only hide them.”
“Ah!” with a long cunning laugh; “shall I hide them and leave you to
face your enemies?”
“By all means, if that is your condition. But pray be quick.”
“You won’t try to escape?”
“It wouldn’t be much good. Where am I to escape to?”
“You will wait here while I place them in safety, so that I may see
you killed? I have dreamed of it often.”
“You shall have that pleasure,” said Cyril aloud. “But it would not
surprise me,” he added to himself, “if a bullet from my revolver found
its way in your direction in the scrimmage, my good man, and gave me
the pleasure instead.”
“Good!” said the old man, unconscious of the murderous determination
of his intended victim. “It is almost a pity that you are not a
Thracian; but no Thracian would be such a fool as to let his life go
so easily. And now, bid the women follow me. I will hide them safely.”
He turned into the house and brought out an ancient lantern, setting
to work to light it by means of a flint and steel, while Cyril turned
to the Queen--
“Madame, the old man consents to hide you; but I have grave doubts of
his sanity, and more of his trustworthiness. Take this knife of mine,
and hide it in your dress. If the occasion comes, use it--that is all
that I can say. The need is so urgent that I dare not advise you to
neglect the smallest chance of escape; but I fear this is a very
slight one indeed.”
“But why should I take your knife?” demanded the Queen, holding the
weapon doubtfully in her hand. “You don’t think that I can’t trust you
to defend us, Count? What has the old man been saying? By his tones
and gestures he seemed to be very hostile to you. What arrangement
have you made with him?”
“He guarantees your safety, madame, which is the important point at
the present moment. Permit me to assist you,” and he helped her across
the threshold into one of the lower rooms of the mill, which was
filled with rusty machinery, looking weird and ghostly in the dim
light. The old man had preceded them, and was waiting at the foot of
a ladder in a similar room beyond, leading to a large round hole in
the ceiling, through which nothing but darkness was visible. The Queen
looked from him to Cyril, then sat down deliberately on a block of
wood, and beckoned to Fräulein von Staubach.
“Ask the old man what he has promised to do,” she said loudly, for in
this confined space the noise of the waterfall was so overpowering
that ordinary tones were inaudible. “No; not you, Count,” waving Cyril
away; “you are trying to hide something from me.”
“Madame,” stammered Fräulein von Staubach, “I heard what passed
between Count Mortimer and the old man. He has promised to hide us
safely if Count Mortimer will give himself up to the enemy.”
“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Cyril in German, “you are in error. There
is no question of giving myself up. I have a revolver here, and I mean
to make a fight for it yet.”
“A fight! one man against a crowd!” said the Queen, with a look of
measureless contempt. “You take too much upon yourself, Count. I am to
be consulted before you enter into treaties of this kind.”
“What is the lady sitting down and wasting time for?” asked the old
man impatiently.
“Tell him that I refuse utterly to be saved at such a price, Sophie,”
said the Queen. “We shall all die together.”
“Madame, madame!” cried Cyril. “Think that you are sacrificing your
son!”
“I am saving his honour,” she replied, with fine scorn. “Could I wish
him to live by the death of his most faithful servant?”
“You torture me, madame!” cried Cyril in agony. “Believe me, there is
no sacrifice in the case. My life is laid joyfully at his Majesty’s
feet. I entreat you not to be so cruel as to refuse the gift.”
“I do refuse it,” said the Queen sharply. “Sophie, give me my child.
They shall kill us together. It will not be long now.”
“Well, what do you intend to do?” asked the old man of Cyril with a
grin, as Fräulein von Staubach placed the little King in the arms of
his mother, who arranged the shawl which she wore over her head so as
to hide from him the ruined machinery, at which he was glancing
fearfully.
“Look here,” said Cyril, dragging the old man aside, “let me go up
with you and get them safely hidden. It will pacify her if she thinks
I am all right, and I give you my word of honour to come down again
with you afterwards.”
“Very well,” returned the woodman. “Help the lame lady up the ladder.”
“Madame,” said Cyril, approaching the Queen, “our friend has changed
his mind, and permits me to attend you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said the Queen, looking round at him with a
rigid face; “for it would be impossible for me to mount that ladder
without your help.”
“She still suspects something, worse luck!” said Cyril to himself, as
he restored the King to the care of Fräulein von Staubach and sent
her up the ladder after the old man. The Queen followed, with more
ease than might have been expected after her confession of weakness,
and Cyril brought up the rear. At the top they found themselves in a
kind of loft, and as soon as they had all ascended, the old man rushed
to a windlass, and by its means drew up the ladder, which he placed on
the floor where it could not be seen from below. Then he left them,
taking the lantern with him, and they traced his progress by his
frequent stumbles over pieces of old ironwork, for the roar of the
water drowned the noise of his footsteps on the shaking boards, until
he suddenly flung open a large shutter, and called to them to come and
look out. A gasp of astonishment escaped them when they obeyed, for
they found themselves apparently in the middle of the waterfall. A
square stone tower was here built out into the stream, and the
cascade, dashing down some four feet below the window, flung its spray
in their faces.
“We are caught like rats in a trap!” was Cyril’s reflection; but
before he could utter a word the old man turned upon him.
“You see that I have you in my power?” he said. “I know you do, and I
know also that you do not trust me. You believe that I have brought
you here to take your choice of deaths between the falls and the
enemy. Well, be it so; suspicion deserves only disloyalty.”
“What does he say?” asked the Queen of Fräulein von Staubach, who,
shaking with terror, translated the words. To her astonishment her
mistress stepped forward, and taking the little King from her, placed
him in the old man’s arms.
“Make him understand,” she said authoritatively. “I do trust you,
Father Giorgei; and I give you the best proof of my trust by confiding
to you the safety of my son, your King.”
Cyril trembled lest the old man should fling the child into the
torrent; but as Fräulein von Staubach translated the Queen’s words,
Giorgei’s face relaxed, and he turned from the window with something
like delight.
“You and your child and your servants are safe with me, lady,” he
said, “for trust begets loyal service. Without your trust I could not
save you, for our only way of escape, if your enemies track you here,
is a terrible one, which will demand the most complete confidence in
me from all of you. But now I do not fear to try it.”
He closed the shutter again and restored the King to his mother, then
turned to a heap of rubbish, and began to draw out of it some pieces
of rope, old and frayed, and to knot them together.
“You have more faith in human nature than I, madame,” observed Cyril
to the Queen, in German.
“How could I do otherwise than trust him, when he had promised to save
us?” she asked, and Cyril reflected that it was not the first time he
had seen a woman arrive at a right conclusion upon insufficient
premisses. But he had no leisure to make further observations on the
peculiarities of feminine logic, for it seemed to him that there was
another sound mingling with the roar of the waterfall.
“Surely I hear shouting?” he said to the old man, who dropped his
pieces of rope immediately, and drew Cyril towards the front of the
building, where a gap between two planks afforded a narrow spy-hole.
Looking through this, they saw that the clearing was filled with
people, who were pouring into it both by the cart-track and the path
through the wood, shouting with eagerness as they realised the
character of the place. Among them Cyril recognised the big butcher of
Karajevo, and also, to his infinite amusement, the churlish host of
the preceding night.
“All lie down on the floor, and do not utter a sound,” said the old
man, extinguishing the lantern as he and Cyril returned to the rest.
“If they are satisfied with searching the ground-floor, we can stay
here; but if they guess that we are on this floor, we must escape by
the falls.”
“Is there any other ladder?” asked Cyril.
“No; but if they wished to climb up, they could easily devise some
means of doing so. Hush!”
Lying flat on the floor, too far from the edge of the hole for their
faces to be seen from below, they saw the darkness above them
illuminated by wavering lights, while the sound of voices, raised in
order to be heard through the noise of the torrent, mounted to their
ears. The mob had manufactured torches from some of the dry wood lying
about, and were crowding into the lower rooms, peering into the
wrecked machinery and probing the rubbish-heaps with their knives. It
took some time to satisfy them that the fugitives were not concealed
on the ground-floor; but at last they halted below the hole which led
to the loft, and gazed up into the blackness.
“There ought to be a ladder,” shouted one. “Where is it?”
“They must be up there,” returned another. “Father Giorgei always
leaves the ladder down here, and it isn’t anywhere about.”
“Never mind,” said the butcher. “We can easily get up without it. A
young tree with the branches on will serve as a ladder.”
“But the man is sure to be armed,” said another; “and he could shoot
you out of the darkness long before you saw him.”
“We will go up ten or twelve at once and overpower him. I don’t mind
being the first,” said the butcher; but the innkeeper pulled his
sleeve--
“No, no, my dear friend; why risk your valuable life? Remember your
wife and children. Let us set the old place on fire, and burn the
wretches out.”
The idea seemed to commend itself to all; but presently a voice said
hesitatingly, “What about Father Giorgei?”
“If they have killed him, it can’t signify to him what happens to the
house; and if he has given them shelter, he deserves to be punished.”
This was convincing, and the mob rushed out to look for wood, several
of them shouting up through the hole, “We have not forgotten you,
foxes! We are going to smoke you out of your earth!”
“Surely we had better go before they come back?” said Cyril; but the
old man shook his head--
“No; if we opened the shutter now they would see the light, and guess
that we had a way of escape. Besides, they may be only trying to
frighten us. When they have brought in their wood we will go, if they
really set light to it. There will be plenty of time.”
The enemy were not long in returning, laden with logs and branches,
which they deposited on the floor and against the wooden portions of
the walls. When their preparations were complete, the butcher stepped
under the hole once more, and shouted, without waiting to receive any
answer.
“Foxes, it’s your last chance! Will you come down or be burnt?”
“See how obstinate they are!” snarled the innkeeper, who was already
setting a light to a heap of shavings. “Well, they won’t break down
honest people’s gates after this. Put a light wherever you can find
any shavings, friends.”
“Pah! it’s getting smoky,” cried one man, coughing loudly. “I suppose
there’s no need for us to be suffocated, at any rate? I’m going out.”
“Yes; we need stay no longer,” said the innkeeper complacently. “The
whole place will be a furnace in a minute or two.”
“Now!” said Cyril to the old man.
“We mustn’t open the shutter until the place is well alight below,”
was the answer, “for they may dash in to see how things are going. But
we can get the ropes ready. You understand that you will have to cross
the falls?”
“Like St Gabriel?”
“Just so, and by his path. Well, I can only take two across at once,
and it will need both you and me to get the lame lady over. Shall I
take her first, or the other woman and the child?”
“The King must go first, of course,” said the Queen, when the question
was translated to her. “Sophie, I put him in your charge.”
Poor Fräulein von Staubach, who was already trembling at the thought
of the perilous transit, displayed no delight in the honourable
pre-eminence thus thrust upon her; but the smoke, which was now
pouring up into the loft through the hole, was so unpleasant that she
did not attempt to hang back. The old man fastened a rope round her
waist, and another round the little King, and told her to knot them
together when he brought the child to her. Then he opened the shutter,
and climbing out on the sill, let himself drop apparently into the
raging waters. He seemed to find some foothold, however, for he stood
firmly with the torrent washing round his knees, and told Cyril to
help out Fräulein von Staubach. In those few moments the poor lady
tasted the bitterness of death. Kissing the Queen’s hand, and
bestowing a farewell embrace on the little King, she allowed Cyril to
help her mount on the window-sill; but there her courage gave way. The
sight of the foaming water was too much for her, and, with a scream,
she tried to precipitate herself again into the room. But the rotten
wood of the sill was displaced by her sudden movement, and she fell on
the outside, and remained suspended for a moment, Cyril holding
desperately to her wrists, until the old man succeeded in catching her
and guiding her feet to his own foothold. Then he led her promptly
through the water round the corner of the tower out of sight, and
apparently into the very heart of the torrent, returning again alone
for the little King. The Queen had tied her handkerchief over the
child’s eyes that he might not be frightened by the falling water, and
Cyril lowered him successfully out of the window into Giorgei’s arms.
“Shut the window and wait for me!” shouted the old man, as he
disappeared again round the corner. “I shall not be five minutes; but
you could never get through alone.”
Cyril closed the shutter immediately and returned into the room. The
smoke was pouring up through the hole, and red tongues of flame were
beginning to mingle with it, leaping up and apparently trying to catch
the edges of the flooring. The Queen was sitting on the ground, and
Cyril asked her to stand up for a moment that he might fasten the rope
round her waist. Putting her hand on the floor to help herself to
rise, she drew it back with a little scream, and then smiled.
“I had forgotten that it was so hot,” she said apologetically.
“I think, madame, that it will be well to stand as near the window as
possible,” said Cyril, with growing anxiety, “so as to be ready the
moment that the old man comes back.”
He found an old packing-case for her to stand on, in order to keep her
wounded feet from the floor, and they waited by the window in silence
for what appeared to be hours. Still the old man did not return, and a
terrible thought crept into Cyril’s mind, What if he did not intend to
return? Could a more horrible death be devised for the victims of his
vengeance than this which grew closer every moment? The cold sweat
stood on Cyril’s brow; but he would not alarm the Queen further, far
less suggest to her that her son also was absolutely in Giorgei’s
power. He felt that he must do something, and throwing back the
shutter, he looked narrowly at the shining, water-washed wall below
the sill. There was no trace of any crevice or projection that might
help in the descent, and at the foot nothing was visible but the
foaming torrent. It was evident that the old man knew of some shelf of
rock which afforded a safe standpoint; but to allow oneself to drop
into the cataract on the mere chance of finding it would be a feat of
such foolhardiness that only the direst necessity could impel a man to
risk it. Still, it was for dear life. But the Queen--for her it would
be simply impossible. The matter was decided. Cyril closed the shutter
again sharply, for the draught served to intensify the force of the
flames, and turned to his companion, who had pressed close to the
window to enjoy the cooler air.
“It’s no good,” he said; “we can’t do it.”
“No good!” repeated the Queen, her eyes dilated with horror.
“We can do nothing unless old Giorgei comes back, and he has been gone
more than ten minutes already.”
“More than ten minutes! He must have been gone two hours--two hours at
least. But tell me, if I were not here, could you escape?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then that means that you could. You are sacrificing yourself for me,
and it can do no good to either of us. Leave me, and save yourself, I
command you.”
Cyril did not offer to stir, and she repeated the order in a tone
tremulous with excitement.
“Count, I command you on your allegiance,--go at once.”
“Madame, I absolutely refuse to leave you.”
“But why?” she asked, with an attempt at anger. “Count, I--I dreamt
last night that you loved me. If--if I was right, go for my sake, I
entreat you. It is my last request.”
“Madame, I also dreamt that dream, and it is for that reason that I
will not go. I had rather die with you than live without you.”
A fresh cloud of stifling smoke rolled into the room, making them both
gasp for breath. The Queen tottered, and Cyril caught her in his arms.
“I don’t think it will be very painful,” he said, trying to find some
crumb of comfort for her. “The smoke will do the business before the
flames reach us. It can’t hurt very much.”
“No; it can’t hurt much now,” she replied dreamily.
The shawl had fallen back from her head; and as her face lay on his
breast, her hair brushed his very lips. Almost unconsciously, he
pressed a kiss upon it. She looked up quickly, with a searching
glance; but as her eyes met his in the lurid light, their expression
changed, softened, and a flush crept over her face. She sighed as her
head sank back to its former position; but it was a sigh of absolute
contentment, and Cyril, emboldened by the look he had caught, stooped
and kissed her on the mouth. She did not resist, and the thrill of
exultation which ran through him swept away the last barriers between
them. He kissed her again passionately, and spoke fast and in broken
accents, his tongue unloosed by the approach of the death which was so
surely creeping nearer.
“Ernestine--my dearest!” he said again and again, his low voice
sounding louder in her ears than the roar of the flames or the
torrent, “we can welcome death, for it has given us to each other.
Life would have kept us apart; but there is nothing between us now. We
stand here as man and woman--not Queen and servant any longer. And yet
you are my Queen--and I am your servant--always--but now it cannot
separate us. We have left our lives behind us. Tell me that you love
me--just the one word.”
The overmastering passion with which he spoke stirred Ernestine, and
she shook back her hair and looked at him with shining eyes. “My
love!” she said, and hid her face again. “Death will be easier than
life would have been,” she murmured.
“Oh, my God!” burst from Cyril. “Death now!” The prospect with which
he had been contented the moment before seemed all at once to have
become terrible beyond expression. Was this new life--this triumphant
love--to end thus? With gloomy eyes he watched the flames creeping
along the floor, seizing on the odds and ends of rubbish that lay
about, coming closer and closer. The wooden walls were on fire as
well; but he and Ernestine stood in the partial shelter of the stone
tower. Still, the floor was of wood even here. The flames must soon
spread to it; it would give way, and they would be precipitated into
the abyss of flame beneath. He turned shuddering from the thought, and
looking at Ernestine, saw that her lips were moving.
“Are you praying, dearest?” he asked her.
“No; I was thanking God,” she answered simply; and Cyril, raging
against his fate and hers, felt almost angry with her for being able
to give thanks at such a moment. Suddenly he bent down, and, with a
horrified exclamation, crushed out a tongue of flame which had run
along the floor and caught her dress. She crept closer to him, and
raised her eyes to his.
“Kiss me once more, dear,” she said. “It cannot be long now.”
Their lips were meeting just as a loud knocking upon the shutter from
without startled them. Disengaging himself from Ernestine’s arms,
Cyril sprang to the window and threw it open. Below in the water stood
old Giorgei, much excited, and belabouring the shutter vigorously with
his staff.
“Thank the saints you are there still!” he shouted breathlessly. “I
was afraid I was too late. That’s right; lower the lady gently,” for
Cyril had not lost an instant in lifting the Queen to the sill, and
was now helping her to let herself down on the outside. “Don’t be
afraid, lady; I am here to catch you. That’s bravely done! Now just
round the corner. Shut your eyes if you are afraid of the water. Now,
what is it you want to say? Go back quickly and save him, do you mean?
Why, of course. You stand there, and I’ll bring him to you in a
trice.”
Cyril was not a moment too soon in lowering himself out of the window,
for the flames and smoke, encouraged by the draught, poured out after
him, and caught the shutter even before he had turned the corner. The
Queen was standing knee-deep in the swirling water, clinging to an
iron ring fixed into the wall, and Giorgei nodded at her approvingly.
“That’s right; you have some sense, I see, but you’ll need it all in a
minute.” It did not seem to strike him that she could not understand
his exhortations. “Cover up your eyes if you are frightened; but don’t
stand still for a second. That was what kept me so long. The other
lady, she got frightened in the middle, and stood holding on to a rock
and shaking. She wouldn’t move one way or the other, and at last I had
to take the child on first and come back for her, and even then I
couldn’t get her to stir for a long time. It was only when I told her
she would be the death of you both if she stuck there that she let go
of the rock, and then she was too terrified to walk. I had to carry
her across in my arms, after all, and she is not so light as she was
once, either.”
“Shall I blindfold you, dear?” said Cyril to Ernestine in English.
“No; I am not frightened with you,” she answered, looking at him with
a rapt expression in her eyes. He doubted whether she was even aware
that she was standing in the water, and yet the means of transit which
the old man now pointed out was such as to put every faculty on the
alert. In front of them, at the top of the fall, the river made its
longest leap, twenty feet or so without a break, and dashed clear of
the rocks, leaving an empty space under a curtain of water. Here a
precarious path had been formed, partly by nature, but chiefly, no
doubt, by the hand of man; and it was possible to cross the cascade,
as St Gabriel had done in his day, beneath the water and not on its
surface. No wonder poor Fräulein von Staubach was frightened! thought
Cyril. But he had little time for reflection. Fastening about his own
waist the end of the rope which was round that of the Queen, the old
man led the way, and in a moment the fugitives found themselves in a
cavern of which the roof was formed of falling water, and where the
air was filled with sound, and the temperature icy cold. The rocks
were damp with constantly oozing moisture, and the greatest care was
needed to prevent a slip; but the Queen never made a false step. She
seemed to know by instinct where to place her feet, and obeyed any
order without the slightest hesitation, and the perilous passage was
accomplished in perfect safety. Fräulein von Staubach and the little
King, watching anxiously among the rocks on the farther shore, flew to
greet her, while Cyril wondered secretly whether his hair had not
turned grey during the last hour. He looked round to speak to Giorgei;
but the old man had disappeared, and looking back in astonishment into
the water-tunnel, Cyril caught sight of him vanishing round a
projecting rock. It was evident that he had departed to avoid being
thanked; and as even gratitude itself could not face the terrors of
the passage again for the sake of tracking him, the fugitives were
obliged to respect his wishes.