THE GREAT CASTLE
John himself the next morning saw the departure of Prince Karl of
Auersperg and his suite, and it was not altogether chance that brought
it about. He was aroused as the other sleepers were by the waiters who
were preparing the room for the day. The Inn of the Golden Lion was
doing a rushing business in a town full of German troops, who ate well
and drank well and who paid.
His night's rest was refreshing to both mind and body, and, after a good
breakfast, he went once more toward the hotel which was frequented by
the highborn and the very highborn. He had no plan in mind, but he knew
that the magnet drawing him was Julie.
The morning was clear and cold, the streets slippery, but vivid with
life, mostly military. He carried his knapsack full of food, and his
blankets in a pack on his back, which his passport showed to be his
right as a peasant trading in horses, and returning from the front to
his home for a fresh supply. But there was little danger to him at
present, as there were many other peasants and farmer folk in Metz on
one errand or another.
He walked about the hotel, and presently noticed signs of bustle.
Several automobiles, one of much magnificence, drove up to the entrance
and halted there, obviously awaiting a company of importance. John had
no doubt from the first that it was the equipage of the Prince of
Auersperg. No one else would travel in such state, and he would stay to
see him go with his prisoners. Others drawn by curiosity joined him and
they and the young peasant stood very near.
John saw the door open, and a porter of great stature, clad in a
uniform, heavy with gold lace, appear, bowing profoundly. It was often
difficult to tell a head porter from a field marshal, but in this case
the man's deferential attitude not only indicated the difference, but
the fact also that Auersperg was coming.
The prince, preceded by two young men in close-fitting blue-gray
uniforms, came out. John was bound to confess once more that he was a
fine-looking man, large, bearded magnificently, and imposing in
appearance and manner. His effect at a state ball or a reception would
be highly decorative, and many a managing American mother would have
been glad to secure him as a son-in-law, provided the present war did
not make such medieval survivals unfashionable.
Auersperg entered his automobile, a very dark red limousine of great
size, and he was shut from John's view, save only his full beard
glimmering faintly through the glass. More men came, soldiers or
attendants, and among them was Antoine Picard, gigantic and sullen. His
arms were unbound and he went with the others willingly. Perhaps
Auersperg had divined that he would not attempt to escape, as long as
Julie was in his hands.
Then came the two women, Julie first, and John heard about him the
muttered exclamation: "The French spies!" He knew that this belief had
taken strong hold of the soldiers and people who stood about. Women,
when they chose to be, were the most dangerous of all spies and the
watchers regarded them with intense curiosity.
Neither was veiled. Julie was erect, and her chin high. John saw that
the girl had become a woman, matured by hardship and danger, and she
looked more beautiful than ever to him that morning. Her cheeks were
pale and tiny curls of the deep golden hair escaped from her hood and
clustered about her temples. John's heart swam with pity. Truly, she was
a bird in the hands of the fowler.
She gave a glance half appealing and half defiant at the people, but the
stalwart Suzanne who followed her was wholly grim and challenging. Then
something strange occurred. John had the most intense anxiety for her to
look at him. He had no belief whatever in anything supernatural, but
sound, intelligible words were made to travel on waves of air, and it
was barely possible in this unexplored world that thought too might be
propelled in the same way.
Almost unconsciously he kept his eyes upon Julie's and he poured his
very soul into the gaze. It was only a little distance from the door to
the automobile which she was to take, and he had time. His gaze became
concentrated, burning, a thing more of the spirit than of sight, and as
her eyes glanced once more about the circle of idle spectators they met
his own and rested there.
John looked straight into their dark blue depths and he saw a startled
flash leap up. Chance or a power yet unknown had drawn her gaze and made
her vision keen. He saw that she knew him, knew him even in that
peasant's dress and under the new stubble of beard. The flash became for
a moment a fire, and her figure quivered, but he was not afraid. He had
an instinctive confidence that she would understand, and that she would
not betray him by any impulsive act.
"I am here to save you," his eyes said.
"I know it," hers replied.
"I will follow you across the world to help you."
"I know that, too."
"Don't betray the fact that you've seen a friend."
"I will not."
Thus the eyes spoke to one another and understood what was said. Julie's
glance passed on, and with unfaltering step she entered an automobile,
the German chauffeur standing by the side of it and respectfully holding
the door. Suzanne followed, the chauffeur closed the door, sprang into
his seat and the little train moved majestically through the streets of
Metz. Comment was plentiful and it was not unkind to Julie.
"Too handsome to be executed as a spy," said a burly German almost in
John's ear. "A girl with a face like that should never feel the touch of
a bullet or a rope. It's a face to be kissed and a neck to fit into a
man's arm."
The man's phrasing was rough, but both his admiration and his pity were
sincere, and John felt no resentment toward him.
"Some of the French girls are wonderful for looks," said another and
younger German, "but they're the most dangerous kind. If it's proved on
the one the prince has caught she'll expect her blue eyes and all that
hair of gold to pull her through."
Him, John hated and would have been glad to strike, but he could help
neither Julie nor himself by resenting it. Instead, he watched the
automobiles, four in number, disappear on the road leading from Metz
toward Stuttgart, a small body of hussars following as a guard, and
then, pack on back, he trudged on foot behind them.
The invaluable passport carried him through the fortifications, and
along the great highway into the country. He was glad that Auersperg had
not gone by train, as it would have been harder to trace him then. Now,
although far behind, he could hear of him at inns and little towns by
the way. Yet he was compelled to recall to himself again and again the
ancient and worn fable of the hare and the tortoise.
He knew well enough that the tortoise did not often overtake the hare.
Hares were cunning little animals, riot able to fight and almost wholly
dependent upon speed for survival in the battle of life. Hence, they
never went to sleep, and in only a single instance recorded in history
had a tortoise won a footrace from a hare. Yet an old proverb, even if
based upon a solitary exception, is wonderfully consoling, and John was
able to use it now as comfort.
After he had passed the fortifications and was well behind the German
interior lines, travel became easier. The Germans, considering their
army a wall before them, were less suspicious and the interruptions were
few. John, moreover, was a cheerful peasant. He had a fair voice, and he
sang German hymns and war songs in a mellow baritone as he strode along.
The road was really not so bad, after that long and hideous life in
filthy trenches. The heat of Sahara would be autumn coolness after a
return from Hades, and now John enjoyed the contrast.
There were many tracks of automobiles in the light snow and hail that
covered the road, and one broader than the rest John felt sure was made
by the great limousine of Auersperg. It was like a trail to lead him on,
and he was a trailer who could not be shaken off.
Rejoicing in his new possession of German--thankful now that he had
studied it so hard--although he spoke it with a strong accent of
Lorraine, John saluted such German soldiers as he passed and wished them
good day. Invariably the salute was returned in pleasant fashion. His
nature was essentially friendly and therefore he bred friendliness in
others. Although he was in a hostile land he was continually meeting
people who seemed to have an instinctive wish to help him.
As he walked on he overtook a stout man of middle age dressed heavily
in brown who appeared to be a priest, and who turned upon him a benign
countenance.
"Why do you travel so fast for one on foot?" asked the man.
"Because I feel strong and my errand takes me far, Father."
"If it takes you far, my son, the less speed in the beginning the
greater at the end."
"True, Father," said John, slackening his pace, and glancing at the
shrewd face which was also both ruddy and kindly. "The Church can give
good advice in temporal as well as spiritual matters."
"Even so, my son," said the priest, who had noted John's frank
countenance, his width between the eyes. "One of my vocation cannot go
through life merely looking inward. Come, walk with me. The world is
mad, gone wholly mad, but let us try to be two sane beings in it for a
little while."
"Thanks, Father," said John. "I can wish no better company. I agree with
you that the world has gone mad. I have seen its madness at its height."
"And at such a time the Church, Protestant or Catholic, must do the best
it can. But we are so few, while so many souls are leaving their bodies.
And yet I tell you, young sir, that not one man in a hundred of this
great European peasantry knows why he fights. I, a priest, may speak
freely, and I do so because my mind is full of indignation this
morning."
"I do not love war, either. You see I walk away from it. But why are
you on foot, Father?"
"By preference. I might have gone in one of the automobiles with the
soldiers, but they are a part of the war madness, and I wished to be
alone. You will learn with years that it's well to be alone at times,
when one may take the measure of himself and those about him. I have
chosen to walk this morning, because it makes my blood run better, and
the winds at least are pure."
"I find the case the same with me, sir. My best thoughts usually come
when I'm walking and alone."
The priest threw out his hands in a wide gesture.
"We agree, I see," he said. "You appear to be a peasant, but your voice
is that of another kind. No, do not protest or say anything. It is no
business of mine that you're not the peasant you claim to be, nor do I
ask the nature of your errand behind the German army."
"I could not tell it to you, Father, but it is an errand of peace. I
think it the highest and holiest I could undertake, and, in undertaking
it, I believe myself to be animated by such a spirit as the knights felt
in the first flush of the Crusades."
"I believe your words. When I first looked into your eyes I said they
were those of an honest young man. We of the cloth learn to know. We
feel instinctively the presence of honesty or dishonesty. Young sir, I
hope that your quest, although it may take you far, will take you to
success."
John's heart beat hard. He knew that the man was only a village priest,
but good wishes carry. They might even travel upon waves of their own,
and send to a happy goal those for whom they were intended.
"Father," he said, "you and I have never met before this day, and we may
never see each other after it. As I told you, mine is a long quest and
it's full of danger. Will you give it your blessing without asking what
it is?"
"Willingly," said the priest as he spread out his hands, and murmured
rapid words in Latin. John, Protestant though he was, felt a curious
lightening of the soul. The Crusaders always sought a blessing before
going into battle, and a spiritual fire that would uphold him seemed to
have passed from the mind of this humble village priest to his.
They went on now for a little while in silence. Uhlans, hussars,
infantry and cannon passed them, but few questions were asked of them.
The day remained cold, and the heavens were a brilliant blue. It was
fine weather for walking and the middle-aged man and the young man kept
pace with each other, stride for stride.
By and by they drank from a brook and then ate together. The priest also
carried a knapsack under his heavy brown overcoat and they shared their
food, finishing it with a sip or two from a flask of light wine.
"We come to a crossroad a mile further on," said the priest, "and there
I think we will part. I turn into the crossroad, and you, I take it,
keep the road to Stuttgart."
"I shall be sorry."
"The way of the world, my son. All through life we are meeting and
parting. The number of people who travel with us all the road is very
small. It may be that I have surmised somewhat of your quest. No, say
nothing! I would not know more, but a far greater power than mine will
help you in it."
They parted at the crossroad and John felt as if he left an old friend.
When he looked back he saw the priest on a little hill gazing after him,
and he felt again as if the good wish that would count was coming on a
wave of air. Then his own road dipped into a valley and at nightfall he
came to a village which had a little inn, humble but neat and clean.
Here he procured a razor and shaved the stubble from his face. He no
longer had a fear of meeting anyone whom he might know, save possibly
Weber, and Weber was a friend.
John's frank face and cheerful manner again made friends for him. The
stout innkeeper and his stout wife favored him with the food, and
hearing that he had come from Metz they wanted to know all the gossip,
which he told them as far as he knew. He had noted the broad track of
the great limousine in the road before he entered the inn, and thinking
it must have stopped there for a little while, he spoke casually of
those who passed.
"Aye," said the innkeeper, "many go by, many of whom will never come
back. They go mostly toward Metz, but a great prince traveling in the
other direction came today, before noon, and we served him refreshment."
"Perhaps it was the Prince of Auersperg," said John. "He was in Metz
when I was there, and I saw him leave."
"They did not tell me his name, but that must have been the man."
"He was in a great, dark red automobile."
"Then it was surely he. One could not mistake that automobile. I take it
that only kings and princes travel in its like."
"He carried with him two Frenchwomen, dangerous spies, intended for
imprisonment in Germany."
"So I heard, and we saw the face of one of them, very young and with the
most marvelous golden hair. I never saw a fairer face. But, as all the
world knows, the most beautiful women are often the most wicked. I
suppose there wasn't a woman among the Philistines who could compare
with Delilah in either face or figure."
"I suppose not," said John, scarcely able to restrain a smile. "Did the
women come into the inn?"
"Oh, no. My wife took food to them in the automobile. She saw them much
better than I did. She says that the younger one--and she was but a
girl--spoke softly and did not look wicked at all. But then, my wife is
fat and sentimental."
The stout hausfrau smiled.
"It is Hans who has the heart full of sentiment," she said. "When he saw
that the French spy was a girl of such beauty and such youth he
believed that she should not be punished, and he a good German! Ah, all
men are alike!"
Hans filled his pipe and wisely made no reply. But John smiled also.
"Is it wicked in a man to have an eye for beauty?" he said. "I know that
my host's heart has thrilled many a time when he caught a glimpse of the
lady who is now his wife and the very competent head of his household."
It was obvious, but both smiled.
"Hans is not so bad," said the hausfrau complacently, and John's
compliment won him an unusually good room that night. Hans told him also
that he could probably secure him a place in an empty supply wagon the
next morning, and John was grateful. Walking was good, and it had done
much to maintain his strength and steady his nerves, but one could not
walk all the way across Germany.
He was aware that he was surrounded by dangers but he felt that the
omens remained fair. Perhaps the good wishes that had been given to him
still clothed him about and protected him from harm. In abnormal times
the human mind seeks more than an ordinary faith.
He would have slept well, but in the night an army passed. For hours and
hours the gray legions trod by in numbers past counting, the moonlight
casting gleams upon the spiked helmets. Then came masses of Uhlans and
hussars and after them batteries of great guns and scores and scores of
the wicked machine guns. Truly, as the priest had said, the whole world
had gone mad. He remembered those days in Vienna when the gay and
light-head ed Viennese had marched up and down the streets all night
long, singing and dancing, and thinking only of war as a festival, in
which glorious victory was sure and quick. Torrents of blood had flowed
under the bridges since then, gay Austria, that had set the torch, had
been shaken to its foundation, and no victory was yet in sight for
anybody.
Nevertheless the German legions seemed inexhaustible. John had seen them
turned back in those long days of fighting on the Marne, and more than a
million had been killed or wounded since the war began, but that
avalanche of men and guns still poured out of the heart of Germany. He
felt more deeply than ever that the world could not afford a German
victory, and the sanguinary spectacle of a Kaiser riding roughshod over
civilization. The fact that so many German people were likable and that
Germany had achieved so much made the case all the worse.
He took the road the next morning, not on foot this time but in an empty
provision wagon, returning eastward, drawn by two powerful horses and
driven by Fritz, a stout German youth. Both Hans and the hausfrau wished
him well, and he soon made a friend of Fritz, who was a Bavarian from a
little village near Munich. John knew Munich better than any other
German city, and he and the young German soon established a common
ground of conversation, because to Fritz Munich was the greatest and
finest of all cities.
That was one of the pleasantest mornings he experienced on his long and
solitary quest. His heavy clothing kept him warm, his seat was
comfortable, the pace was good and Fritz was excellent company. Fritz
was a simple peasant, though, in his belief that Germany was right in
everything and omnipotent, that the other nations through jealousy had
conspired to destroy her, but she, instead, would destroy them all, and
rule a conquered world.
John saw readily that the poison had been instilled into him from his
birth by the men higher up, and he blamed Fritz very little for his
misguided beliefs. Besides, it was pleasant to have the company of one
somewhat near his own age, and to listen to human talk. There was a
girl, Minna, in the village near Munich whom Fritz was going to marry as
soon as the war was over.
"And that won't be long now," said Fritz. "It's true that we were halted
before Paris last year, but we came again more numerous and more
powerful than ever. The Kaiser will make a finish of it all in the
spring, and I shall marry Minna. We shall go into Munich, see the
beautiful city, and then go back to our home in the village."
"A fine place, Munich," said John. "In my dealing in horses I've been
there more than once. Do you remember the Wittelsbach Fountain in the
Maximilienplatz?"
"Aye, and a cooling sight it is on a warm day."
"And the green Isar flowing through the Englischer Gardens!"
"And the ducks swimming down to the edge of the little falls, swimming
so close that you think they're going over and then swimming away
again."
"Yes, I've seen them, and once I went into the gallery and saw the
strange pictures they called Futurist, which I think represent the bad
dreams of painters who have gone to bed drunk."
"You're a man of sense, you Castel, even if you do have a French name. I
went in there myself once, and then I hurried away to the Hofbrau and
drank all the beer I could that I might forget it."
John laughed, and Fritz laughed with him.
"How far do you go?" asked John.
"Only to Stuttgart. I wish it was Munich. Then I might see Minna again
before returning to the war."
But they had a placid journey to Stuttgart, sleeping by the way in the
wagon. Arriving in the city John paid Fritz for his ride and parted from
him with regret. He spent a night here in a humble inn, and discovered
that Auersperg and his party were now two days ahead of him. The
automobiles were moving with speed, and John surmised that the prince
did not intend to remain long at his castle over the Austrian border.
Perhaps he would have to return to the war, leaving Julie and Suzanne
there. He hoped so.
Two days later John was in Munich, and he learned that Auersperg had not
increased his lead. It was easy enough to trace him. He had secured an
extensive suite of apartments at the large hotel, the Bayerischer Hof,
although Julie and the Picards had been secluded in another part of the
hotel. Auersperg had gone to the palace and had held a long conference
with the old King of Bavaria, but on the second day he had left, still
going eastward, escorted by hussars.
John departed again and on foot. The weather was balmier now, with
touches of spring in it. Faint shades of green appeared in the grass and
the foliage, and his pursuit was sanguine. Fortune had certainly favored
him in a remarkable manner, so far. He had been able to answer all
questions in a convincing way, and here in Bavaria the people were not
so suspicious, and perhaps not so stern as they were in Prussia. Nor did
he doubt for a moment that Julie knew he was following them. She had
recognized him and their eyes had spoken in the language of
understanding to each other. It was easy enough to re-create for
himself, almost as vivid as reality, her beautiful face with the golden
hair showing under the edges of the hood, and the startled look of the
dark blue eyes when they first met his own. Relief and joy had been in
that look too. He could read it.
John had learned in Munich the location of Auersperg's principal castle.
It was Zillenstein in a spur of the Eastern Alps just inside Austria,
where for centuries the Auerspergs had held great state, as princes of
the Holy Roman Empire. Now when they were princes of both the German and
the Austro-Hungarian empires with their greater fealty for the former,
they often went there nevertheless, and John's information in Munich
made him quite sure that the prince had gone directly toward the
ancient stronghold.
Auersperg could cover the distance quickly in his powerful automobiles,
but it would take John a long time on foot, helped by an occasional ride
in a peasant's cart. Nevertheless he hung on with patience and
pertinacity. He was but a single man on a quest in the heart of Germany,
but in the old days men had gone alone through a world of dangers to the
Holy Sepulchre and had returned. He was not far from the path taken by
those from Western Europe, and he was uplifted by the knowledge. The
feeling that he, too, was a crusader grew strongly upon him, and by
night and day was his support.
He crossed the border at last and came to Salzburg in the mountains,
where the gray-green Salzach flows down from the glaciers and divides
the town. The place was thronged with soldiers, and the summit of the
frowning Muenchburg was alive with activity. Here in the very heart of
the Teutonic confederation, far from hostile frontiers, travelers were
not subjected to such rigid scrutiny. It was deemed that everything was
safely German, and John could travel at ease almost like an inhabitant
of the land.
Salzburg looked familiar to him. There had been much to photograph it
upon his mind. He remembered the uneasy night he and his uncle had
passed there before his flight with Lannes, which had taken him into
such a train of vast events. It had been only seven or eight months
before but it seemed many times as long. He had felt himself a boy in
Vienna, he felt himself a man now. He had been through great battles,
he had seen the world in convulsion, his life a dozen times had hung on
a hair, and since it is experience that makes a man he was older than
most of those twice his age.
He was stopping after his custom at an obscure inn, and in the moonlight
he strolled through the little city. In its place among the mountains on
both sides of the gray-green river it was full of romance to him,
romance colored all the more deeply by memory. Off there among those
peaks the _Arrow_ had first come for him and Lannes, while here the
great Mozart had been born and lay buried. In remoter days Huns had
swept through these passes, coming from Asian deserts to the pillage of
Europe.
John sat down on a bench in the little square before the cathedral and
looked up at the mountains. He knew the exact location in which lay
Zillenstein, the ancient seat of the Auersperg race, and he calculated
that in two days he could reach it on foot, the lone youth in peasant's
garb, pursuing the powerful prince and general, surrounded by retainers
and hussars and in the land of his ancestors.
John wondered what had become of his comrades. Was Lannes well, and had
he got his message? Were Carstairs and Wharton still alive, and where
was Weber? They were questions the solution of which must wait upon the
success of his quest, and therefore the answer might never come. But he
fiercely put away such a thought. He would succeed! He must succeed!
He was not walking in the dark. He had learned that Auersperg and his
people had arrived at Salzburg two days before, and had left after a few
hours for Zillenstein. The prince was in excellent health and would not
remain at his castle more than a week. Then he would return to the
western front, where he was one of the great generals around the Kaiser.
He had brought with him two Frenchwomen, spies, who would be imprisoned
in the dungeons of Zillenstein until the war was over, if, indeed, they
were not shot before. One, it was said, was very young, and beautiful,
but she was the more dangerous of the two.
Poor Julie! there was a conspiracy of fate against her, but John shook
himself and felt his courage rising anew, powerful, indomitable,
invincible. He had come so far alone, and he would rescue her with his
single hand! He went back to the inn and sat for a while among peasants
and listened to their talk. They knew little of what was passing beyond
the Teutonic empires. As usual in Germany and Austria, they accepted
what the men higher up told them. They were always winning victories
everywhere, and it would be but a short time before the treacherous
English, the wicked French and the ignorant Russians were crushed.
John yawned after a while and went to his room. He intended to be fresh
and strong the next morning when he started on the last stage of his
search, and when the dawn came he was glad to see that it was clear and
bright. By noon he was deep among the hills, and so far had answered all
questions without arousing any suspicion. But he knew that trouble
about his identity was bound to come in time. He could not go on
forever, playing the rôle of Jean Castel, a horse-buyer from Lorraine.
Lorraine was far away now, and he was beyond his natural range.
And yet his frank young face and smiling eyes were continually making
him friends where he expected none. Explanations that might have seemed
doubtful coming from others were convincing when he spoke them, and here
in this hostile land, where he would have been executed as a spy, his
identity known, he was instead helped on his way.
Late in the afternoon, when he was high up on the shoulder of a mountain
he came to one of the little wayside shrines that one sees in the
Catholic countries of the Old World. A small stream of clear, green
water ran almost at the feet of the image, and he knelt and drank. Then
he sat down to eat a little bread and sausage from his knapsack, and,
while he was there, a middle-aged woman with two young boys also came to
the shrine, before which they knelt and prayed. When they rose John
politely offered them a portion of his bread and sausage, but they
declined it, thanking him, and bringing forth food of their own, ate it.
John saw that the woman's face was very sorrowful, and the boys were
grave and thoughtful beyond their years. He knew that they were under
the shadow of the war, and his sympathy drew him to them.
"You have other sons, perhaps," he said gently, "and they are with the
armies?"
"Alas, yes," she replied. "I have two others. One went to the east to
fight the Russians and the other was sent to the west to meet the
French. I have not heard from either in three months. I do not know
whether they are alive or dead. We go into Salzburg tomorrow to get news
of them, if we can."
"I hope they may come back to you," said John simply.
"And you? You are not of Austria."
"No, I came from a land that was French before I was born but which is
now German, and under the beneficent rule of the great Kaiser--Lorraine."
"You have indeed made a great journey."
"But it's to help one who needs help. I'd go if it took me to the other
side of the world. The errand is sacred."
"Then I wish you Godspeed upon it. You are young, and you have a good
face. What you say must be true. I shall pray for you and the happy end
of your search."
She uttered words rapidly under her breath. She was a middle-aged and
uneducated Austrian woman, but as she prayed and the shadows deepened on
the mountains he received an extraordinary impression. A priest had
prayed, too, for his success, and the second prayer could not be a mere
coincidence. It was one of a chain. His will to succeed was so powerful,
and so many others were helping him with the same wish that he could not
fail.