of darkness. Drawn aimlessly by the pathos of the songster's lay, Carter
wandered to the window to gaze out into the moonless midnight. Racking
his quivering heart, his imagination dwelt on a pictured life with
Trusia, emphasizing the sweet moments of her complete surrender.
Time lost all measure in his rhapsody. He might have stood leaning over
the sill a day or a second, when a sound, persistent and murmuring,
haled him back to mundane things. Intermittently, but with growing
volume, from somewhere beyond the wall of black, came the echoes of an
army in passage. He could separate the different noises. That, he
recognized by its deep grumbling noise, was cannon; the rattling sound,
like an empty hay wagon, was caissons, while the muffled, thudding echo
was cavalry at the trot. The force, apparently a heavy one, did not seem
to be coming from Schallberg. He leaned far out of the window
challenging the darkness with his peering eyes. Dimly he could descry
the plateau about the castle with its low bastions at the cliff's edge.
Indefinite shapes pacing along the wall he knew to be Krovitzer
sentries. He fancied he heard a challenge on the distant road, a halt,
then the invisible army took up its march again.
Straining every sense, he concluded that the force was moving from, and
not toward, the frontier. Sutphen, then, for some unknown reason, must
have consented to withdraw part of his none too strong army from points
which Carter believed to be greatly in need of reinforcement. He debated
with himself, therefore, the military necessity of confirming these
impressions. Knowing, however, how prone to offense the plethoric
Colonel could be, and reassured by the fancied challenges, he
relinquished the idea. Growing drowsy with the extra mental exertion, he
divested himself of his clothing and was soon in bed and asleep.
During his slumber another detachment passed, then another, while just
before dawn a heavy force of infantry at double time went down the road.
Carter arose late the next morning. After a hasty breakfast, too early,
however, for the other participants in the evening's festivities, he
buckled on his sabre and, taking his fatigue cap, strolled out upon the
terrace. He found the Minister of Private Intelligence pacing moodily
back and forth on the stone flags. Acknowledging his salute, Carter
stopped and spoke.
"Anything doing?" he inquired with a cheerful air.
Sobieska nodded. "Zulka's in command of Schallberg. Sutphen with a small
force occupies Markos due east of the capital. Lesky's Rifles have
seized Bagos on a line with both at the western frontier. This completes
our alignment on the south. Wings have been thrown out from both Markos
and Bagos to the extreme north, making a monster 'E' of which we are the
middle arm."
Carter betrayed surprise. "Well, what force was that which passed during
the night?" he asked. "I thought you said Sutphen had only a small
command on the frontier, yet there were two or three parks of heavy
artillery went by."
"I didn't hear them," responded Sobieska, "but Josef reported them as
reinforcements from the Rifles for the frontier. There may have been
some cannon, but not as many as you think. He dare not weaken his
strength that way."
"It seemed to me," said Carter dubiously, "that they marched from the
frontier, not toward it. But how did Josef come to report it? Where was
the officer of the guard?"
Sobieska turned an indulgently commiserating smile on Carter.
"Haven't you heard?" he asked as he lightly flicked the ash from his
morning cigar. Carter pleaded ignorance.
The Privy Counselor drew close to his shoulder and spoke in a
confidential tone. "Josef has made himself indispensable to His Majesty.
He begged for, and yesterday received, a commission as Colonel of
Hussars as a return for services in restoring the King to his own.
Whether or not at his own request, he was yesterday appointed Officer of
the Guard. It was in the line of his duty that he reported." He next
spoke as to one in whom he could safely confide. "I don't like the look
of things there," he said, pointing toward the frontier. "There weren't
too many men, in my opinion, to hold it as it was. Now they have
withdrawn part of that force. Unless they can mobilize quickly on this
road we are holding wide open arms for Russia's forces. However," he
said hopefully, "last night's movement may have been to cure the evil."
Setting them down to the vagaries of darkness, Carter dismissed his
surmises of the night before as untenable in the face of this
explanation. His companion continued his promenade nervously along the
front of the castle. Carter joined him.
"There is another matter," said the Krovitzer with a slight contraction
of his brows, "that is causing me some little annoyance. I am very
punctilious about some things and exact promptitude as the greatest
qualification in my subordinates. I should have had dispatches from
London and Paris two days ago. I am out here now waiting for Max to
arrive with them. It's a minor matter, but it has made me uneasy."
"Information concerning Carrick?" Carter queried.
"Yes," Sobieska replied. "What is that?" he asked with more than usual
animation as the dull sound of distant booming interrupted them.
"Krupp guns," Carter answered, as much in surprise as for the
information of the other. "Russia must have awakened at last. Sounds
like a general engagement," he said as the volume of the distant sounds
increased.
"We'll have to inform His Majesty. Hope he is awake." Sobieska started
for the door. Carter lingered, for just then Trusia appeared in the
entrance.
She seemed a part of the sweet, pure morning. Clad in an informal riding
habit, such as he had frequently met in early rides in Central Park, in
her starched waist, khaki skirt and broad-brimmed felt, she made a
charming picture against the grim doorway.
"Plotting?" she asked with a gay little smile, shaking her bamboo crop
at them. "You look like surprised conspirators. Major Carter, I'll have
to claim your escort this morning. Casimir is still asleep. I'm afraid
Lady Natalie danced him to death last night, the will-o'-the-wisp. His
Majesty has his duties for some hours to come, as I can tell by that
portentous frown on Sobieska's face. I, alone, once so busy, now find
time hanging heavy on my hands. Can you come?"
"My only duty, Highness, is to serve you. That makes any duty a
pleasure."
"Rather well done," she said with head on one side critically, "just a
trifle stiff. I saw Carrick at the stable and anticipated your
acquiescence. He is saddling a mount for you. Here he comes now," she
added, as the clatter of hoofs on the flags approached from the
direction of the stables.
The Cockney approached leading two horses. He held Trusia's foot as she
leaped lightly into the saddle. After he was satisfied that she was
properly mounted he came to the off side of Carter's horse. There was a
request written in every line of the earnest face.
"Well?" asked Carter bending down from his saddle.
"May I go too, sir? Just as groom, sir. Please, sir?" he added, seeing a
shade of dissent upon his master's face. "The truth is, sir, I 'ad a bad
dream last night. Don't laugh," he pleaded as the corners of Carter's
mouth twitched suggestively, "don't laugh. It was too real, too
'orrible. I thought an army rode over you and 'Er Grace and tramped you
down. You called out to me to 'elp. I could 'ave saved you, but was too
far away. Let me go, sir; just as groom. I'll keep far be'ind." The
fellow was honestly distressed, so Carter sent him to Trusia, who gave
him the desired permission. Then for the first time the Major noted that
Carrick wore his sabre. The holster by his saddle held a revolver.
XXI
CARRICK WAS FAR BEHIND
Carrick was far behind. Overhead the tattered roof of leaves made a
lacework of the sun. Birds were singing; their bright eyes turned
curiously on the young couple passing beneath their verdant bowers. Tiny
feathered brides nodded dainty heads, urging the great, stupid, human
fellow to sing the love song in his heart to the girl by his side. "Mate
now," they chirped, "in leaf time, in flower time, while fields are warm
and nature yielding. The great mother, herself, commands it."
The impulses of nature were astir in the breasts of both Trusia and
Carter, awakening in each a silent rebellion against a destiny which was
forcing them to talk of trivial nothings which add naught to the greater
issues of life. So far they had bowed to the dictates of destiny, but
were growing more and more restive under the self-imposed restraint.
The horses stopped to drink from a stream which crossed their path.
Carter, glancing in the direction of its source, saw that a heavy limb
had fallen from a dead tree, blocking the passage of what had otherwise
been but a wavering string of water. Restrained, however, it had
mounted higher and higher, until at last, broadened, strengthened, and
deepened, it had swept triumphantly over the dam and kept on its way. He
felt that he was undergoing the same process in restraining the natural
expression of his love for Trusia. Unconscious of his comprehension,
she, too, had grasped the lesson of the stream. Their satiny nozzles
dripping sparkling drops of water, the horses resumed their progress
beneath the forest colonnade.
Trusia turned to him. Her resolution had been difficult to reach.
"When Krovitch is free," she said, "you must still remain with our
army." She observed him covertly as she awaited his reply. The
hopefulness, which at first drew him erect, gradually disappeared,
leaving in its wake the bending lines of despair. There was a drawn look
in his face as he turned to answer.
"No," he said, and moodily turned his eyes away again.
"That means you will return to America." A subtle sensitiveness could
have construed this to embrace a query, a request and a regret. The
slightest quiver inflected her voice as she had spoken, but she bravely
finished without a break. Poor girl, she, too, was suffering. She was
sending away her ideal lover with only a meagre taste of maiden romance
to make life all the more sorrowful for the having. All this he felt. As
he recognized what it must mean to her--to any woman--deprived of man's
right of initiative in declaration, he was tempted to gather her roughly
in his arms and carry her away from duties, friends, country even, to
fulfil her own happiness, which was his. The maxillary muscles ached
with the strain his restraint put upon them.
"I must go. I must," he replied. "Pride, honor, sanity demand it."
"It is better so," she said softly as she bent her head. She, a Jeanne
D'Arc to her people, was inured to sacrifice. Above all, sweet and
clean, she saw Duty shine through Love as the sun shone through the
leaves above her head. So was the royal duchess fortified for her
future. Then Trusia, beautiful and desirable, Trusia, the woman,
rebelled that destiny should have ignored her in the plans for Trusia
the princess.
"I will never see you again--as a dear friend--after you have gone. But
I--but Krovitch will never forget you." Then in her royal pride that
felt no noble confession could shame her womanhood, she turned almost
fiercely upon him.
"Oh, why was I chosen for the sacrifice? Why couldn't I be as other
women? Natalie need not drive her friends away. Alone; I stand alone."
Her breath came in short, sobbing gasps which she fought courageously to
silence.
Carrick was far behind. Forgetting everything except the quivering heart
of the girl beside him, Carter leaned over and drawing her gently toward
him, patted the convulsive shoulders with awkward masculine solace. Like
a child in the shelter of maternal arms, the glossy head, forgetful for
the instant, nestled against his shoulder, soothed and at peace. While
Duty had manacled the queen, the woman had been justified. Then she
sighed. With a weary gesture of renunciation she sat upright in her
saddle, looking directly to the front. A single tear hung quivering on
her lashes.
"Another dream for the Queen to sigh over," she commented with a quick
laugh, flavored of wormwood.
"Why must it be?" he queried. "You do not love the King." Then all the
tide of courage flooding past his lips, he asserted against all
denial,--"You love me."
The regal head drooped as she turned from him.
"'I would not love you, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more,'"
she quoted sadly.
"But it is not honor; it is sacrifice," he argued.
"What duty is not?" she questioned sadly.
"It is madness," he fumed impotently.
"Think of my people." She shook her head in magnificent self-abnegation,
putting aside the tenderer visions which were thronging her heart,
picturing her life with the man at her side. "Their welfare demands it."
He leaned across to plead with her. The loose flying tresses of her hair
touched his cheeks in elusive salute. They beckoned him closer and ever
closer. His heart could be heard, he feared, so loudly did it beat. He
could feel the great red surges being pumped through arteries, too small
for their impulsive torrents. They choked him.
"Trusia," he cried hoarsely, for the first time using her Christian
name. The entire soul of the man, every particle of his entity, had
entered into the saying of that name.
Startled, she turned to learn the reason for his vehemence; that voice
had spoken so compellingly to her eyes, ears, heart and body, and had
sought out every resistance and overcome it. Her eyes, held captive to
his gaze, were wide with question.
"I love you," he continued with quiet masterfulness, as one who, staking
all on one throw of the dice, dispenses with pretense and braggadocio
in the face of despair. "Listen to me. I would make you happy. I'd be
your devoted slave, till white-haired, aged and blissful, life should
pass from us gently as the echoes of a happy song of spring."
"You make it so hard for me," she said pleadingly.
"Forgive me, sweetheart, but love will not be denied," he answered. "Let
the King have Krovitch, and you come with me." His face was close to
hers, his heart was slowly, strongly closing on her own fluttering
heart.
She felt that, unless she could at once throw off the spell, in another
minute she would be limply lying in his arms in complete surrender to
his plea. For a long eternity it seemed that, strive as she would, she
could not conquer herself. Then she sat erect; the victory was won.
"I cannot; I cannot," she replied tensely, the last modicum of will
summoned to resist what he sought and she desired. "The King"--she
began, bethinking her of her reason; "you know that he is not always
prudent. Mine is a hot-headed though loyal people. I must be by to guide
him--for Krovitch. But, ah, 'twill be with a heavy heart!"
He leaned across from his saddle. "I care not for Krovitch so much as
you do. Tell me that you love me."
She turned away her face that the eye of the man might not see and be
blinded by the white light of the woman's love which shone in her own
countenance.
"Say it, Trusia," he urged; "say it for my soul's peace."
With a royal pride in the confession, she turned her head, meeting his
regard with level eyes.
"I love you, Calvert," she responded simply.
Carrick was far behind. Though she struggled faintly, he drew her to
him. Her face was turned up to his. Her eyes shone misty, dark and
wonderful, like the reflection of stars on the shimmering waters of a
lake. They illumined his soul. Her lips for the first time received a
kiss from any lover. Then cheek to burning cheek, they passed the crest
of a little hill and rode slowly down its thither side.
Like an accusation, from some place behind them, rang out the
unmistakable clang of sword on sword. They reined in their horses to
listen.
"Carrick," hazarded Trusia, voicing the premonition paralyzing both.
Then, forgetful of self, in the chivalrous creed of her race, she
pointed back in the direction of the noise. "Go," she commanded, "he
needs you."
"But you?" he demurred, his first thought, lover-like, being for her
safety. His eyes fell approvingly upon the thick covert by the roadside.
He nodded suggestively toward it.
"Yes, I'll be safe--I'll hide," she promised eagerly; "now go." He
fairly lifted his horse from its feet as he swung it around. In mighty
bounds it carried him over the crest of the hill.
Two hundred yards away, Carrick could be seen defending himself gamely
against the combined attack of three mounted men. Something, even at
that distance, about their uncouth horses and absurdly high saddles,
sent a shiver of recognition through Carter. He had seen thousands of
their ilk along the Neva. The trio of strangers were Russian Cossacks.
How had they passed the Krovitch outposts some miles back? The boldness
of their onslaught argued the presence of reinforcements in the
neighborhood. Could it be part of a reconnoissance in force? The sudden
memory of the passing of the invisible army in the darkness came back to
Carter with sinister meaning. He realized that it had been an invasion
by a Russian army. Krovitch had been betrayed--by Josef. Carrick was in
danger.
He roweled the horse's side. The animal, smarting under the punishment,
plunged forward like some mad thing. Settling firmly back in his saddle
for the crash to come, Carter drew his sabre with the yell that had
swept the Americans up San Juan Hill and the Spaniards out of Cuba.
One Cossack, startled at the unexpected shout, turned his head for an
instant in the direction of the approaching succor. It served for
Carrick. Like a tongue of lightning his nimble sword entered the tough
brown throat. Even from that distance the American could distinguish the
"Ht" of the brute as he fell, lifeless, in the road. In order to make
short work of the agile swordsman, the other two closed grimly in. The
Cockney had had some difficulty in disengaging his blade from the
falling man, permitting his adversaries to push their ponies so close to
his sides that he could work only with a shortened blade. Appreciating
what terrific additional handicap this would be to Carrick, Carter was
yet scarcely prepared for the immediate tragedy that followed. Like the
phantasmagoria of dreams, he saw the Cockney, cut, slashed, and pierced,
fall heavily from his horse.
Just a second too late, he burst upon them. With the yell of a baffled
animal Carter hurled himself upon the nearest Cossack. His fury was
volcanic. Terrified by such titanic rage the pair gave way as to
something superhuman, wielding an irresistible sword. Blood-lust made
him see everything through a mist, red and stinging. He was a Cave Man.
His opponents were pigmies who shrank back, appalled, by his murderous
might. One Slav saw death beckon him, so fell, wild-eyed, to the ground,
his neck spurting a fountain of blood. The other, too paralyzed with
terror to fight or flee, stood irresolutely in the mid-road, his ugly
face twitching with an idiotic grin. Carter, hell in his heart, rode
fiercely against his horse. The Cossack raised a futile blade. Carter
battered it down with vengeful satisfaction, driving its point through
the fellow's heart.
The last of the Russian trio lay dead upon the ground, but Carter, in
short nervous excursions, rode back and forth as he searched for new
prey. The mood for killing--and killing--was upon him. He was a
primitive savage.
His horse shied violently and stood still. Blinded with rage, the rider
would have wreaked his unreasoning hatred on the animal who, even for a
second, had stopped the ceaseless, prowling movements inseparable from
the man's strange jungle mood. With a curse he drove his spurs deep. The
poor brute quivered, but would not budge. Carter looked ahead of him to
ascertain the cause, determined if it was a living obstacle, to batter,
slash, and cut it into nothingness.
He met the white, smiling face of Carrick, who, dying, was striving to
regain his feet. The red mist of carnage passed from Carter's eyes and
sanity came back to him. Dismounting, he bent over the stricken Cockney.
"I was insane, Carrick, old chap," he said brokenly, as he drew his hand
heavily across his aching brow. "I thought they had done for you." A sob
choked him, caused by the recollection of the dream the fellow had urged
as a reason for accompanying his master. The tables had turned bitterly
against him.
Looking with that affection in his eyes that sometimes does exist
between men, Carrick saw the thought with the weird prescience of the
dying. "Dreams go by contraries, sir," he said and attempted a laugh.
"But it might have been Her Grace, Carrick, old man. You have saved her
life." He grasped the fast chilling hand and wrung it fervently.
"Her Grace is safe, then?"
Carter striving busily to stanch half a score of wounds, nodded
affirmatively.
"It's my last scrap, sir," the Cockney said simply.
"Nonsense. We'll pull you through." Carter lied manfully, but the other
shook his head in resignation to the inevitable.
"She's a lydey--you understand--but would it be too great a shock--to
'er--for me to speak to 'er--before--before--I croak?" he stammered
wistfully.
"I'll get her, old man." Gently he lifted the wounded Carrick, carried
him to where, aside from the road, a bed of moss made a more comfortable
pillow for the stricken red head, then, with a sigh, he set out to bring
Trusia. Roweling deep, he raced with Death to bring a woman's solace to
a dying man.
XXII
CARRICK IS KING
"Where is Carrick?" Her question came from the thick copse in which she
was concealed. "You have had news, I know," she said, stepping into view
and glancing searchingly into his troubled countenance. "Is he wounded?"
He could have gathered her into his arms and kissed her as she stood
before him, but that the very air seemed charged with impending
disaster. As gently as brevity would permit, he told her of Carrick's
fate. Together they rode swiftly back to where Carrick lay, fighting his
last triumphant adversary, Death himself.
"No Lunnon sights to see," he muttered in his delirium; "no concert
songs to'ear.... Ah, Meg, you was cruel 'ard on poor Tod, but damn you,
I loves you still."
"A woman betrayed him," she said. Carter nodded a grim assent. Her lips
quivered. Her eyes brimmed to the brink with priceless womanly sympathy.
"Perhaps," she said rising and turning away, "perhaps he wouldn't care
for us to know."
Carter drew her back gently. "I don't think he would mind--if you knew.
Poor chap, his has certainly been a hard fate."
Responding to the appeal in their hearts, which penetrated the numbing
faculties, Carrick, in one final effort, threw off the shackles of Death
and stood free for a season. His eyes opened at first without
recognition for the pair bending over him. Then a gradual joy warmed the
cooling embers of his life.
"'Ighness," he cried; the neighborhood of Death stripped his speech to
its native crudeness. "'Ighness, a man carries to 'is grave the face of
one woman in 'is 'eart. Hi knows that much to me sorrow. Captain, 'ere,
beggin' your pardon, loves you, but daren't sye so for fear of 'Is
Majesty. You don't love the King, you love Captain Carter. God bless
'im, 'e's the best man ever breathed. For Gawd's sake, 'Ighness, don't
let 'im carry your sweet face to the grave with 'im unless your love
goes with hit. You two was made for each other."
As a blade loses its sharpness from continuous wear, so dulled the eyes
of Carrick in his combat with Death. In the bitterness of his strife he
struggled to his elbow. Who can tell of the range of one's soul or the
might thereof? On the brink of Eternity, Life wrestled with Death. The
body was to be bared of the soul. Was the soul to be stripped of the
associations it had formed in this existence? Might it not also strive
for a continuance of its entity even as the man struggled for further
living? Does the soul return to a nebulous state without further
initiate perceptions after a life--a span--of activity? Was it merely
recollections, or did his desperate spirit revisit the route of its life
in a fruitless flight from Death? His voice came from far away, and what
he said showed that he was at least living over the older days.