The next morning Edelweiss was astir early. Great throngs of people
flocked the streets long before the hour set for the signing of the
decree that was to divide the north from the south. There were men and
women from the mountains, from the southern valleys, from the plains to
the north and east. Sullen were the mutterings, threatening the faces,
resentful the hearts of those who crowded the shops, the public places
and the streets. Before nine o'clock the great concourse of people began
to push toward the castle. Castle Avenue was packed with the moving
masses. Thousands upon thousands of this humbled race gathered outside
the walls, waiting for news from the castle with the spark of hope that
does not die until the very end, nursing the possibility that something
might intervene at the last moment to save the country from disgrace and
ruin.
A strong guard was required to keep the mob back from the gates, and the
force of men on the wall had been quadrupled. Business in the city
was suspended. The whole nation, it seemed, stood before the walls,
awaiting, with bated breath and dismal faces, the announcement that
Yetive had deeded to Bolaroz the lands and lives of half of her
subjects. The northern plainsmen who were so soon to acknowledge Axphain
sovereignty, wept and wailed over their unhappy lot. Brothers and
sisters from the south cursed and moaned in sympathy.
Shortly before nine o'clock, Harry Anguish, with his guard of six, rode
up to the castle. Captain Dangloss was beside him on his gray charger.
They had scarcely passed inside the gates when a cavalcade of mounted
men came riding up the avenue from the Hotel Regengetz. Then the
howling, the hissing, the hooting began. Maledictions were hurled at
the heads of Axphain noblemen as they rode between the maddened lines
of people. They smiled sardonically in reply to the impotent signs of
hatred, but they were glad when the castle gates closed between them and
the vast, despairing crowd, in which the tempest of revolt was brewing
with unmistakable energy.
Prince Bolaroz, the Duke of Mizrox and the ministers were already in
the castle and had been there since the previous afternoon. In the royal
palace the excitement was intense, but it was of the subdued kind that
strains the nerves to the point where control is martyrdom.
When the attendants went to the bed chamber of the Princess at seven
o'clock, as was their wont, they found, to their surprise, no one
standing guard.
The Princess was not in her chamber, nor had she been there during the
night. The bed was undisturbed. In some alarm the two women ran to her
parlor, then to the boudoir. Here they found her asleep on the divan,
attired in the gown she had worn since the evening before, now crumpled
and creased, the proof positive of a restless, miserable night.
Her first act after awakening and untangling the meshes in her
throbbing, uncomprehending brain, was to send for Quinnox. She could
scarcely wait for his appearance and the assurance that Lorry was safely
out of danger. The footman who had been sent to fetch the captain was
a long time in returning. She was dressed in her breakfast gown long
before he came in with the report that the captain was nowhere to be
found. Her heart gave a great throb of joy. She alone could explain his
absence. To her it meant but one thing: Lorry's flight from the castle.
Where else could Quinnox be except with the fugitive, perhaps once more
inside St. Valentine's? With the great load of suspense off her mind
she cared not for the trials that still confronted her on that dreaded
morning. She had saved him, and she was willing to pay the price.
Preparations began at once for the eventful transaction in the throne
room. The splendor of two Courts was to shine in rivalry. Ten o'clock
was the hour set for the meeting of the two rulers, the victor and the
victim. Her nobles and her ladies, her ministers, her guards and her
lackeys moved about in the halls, dreading the hour, brushing against
the hated Axphain guests. In one of the small waiting rooms sat the
Count and Countess Halfont, the latter in tears. The young Countess
Dagmar stood at a window with Harry Anguish. The latter was flushed and
nervous and acted like a man who expects that which is unexpected by
others. With a strange confidence in his voice, he sought to cheer
his depressed friends, but the cheerfulness was not contagious. The
sombreness of a burial hung over the castle.
Half an hour before the time set for the meeting in the throne room
Yetive sent for her uncle, her aunt and Dagmar. As Anguish and the
latter followed the girl turned her sad, puzzled eyes up to the face of
the tall American and asked:
“Are you rejoicing over our misfortune? You do not show a particle of
regret. Do you forget that we are sacrificing a great deal to save the
life of your friend? I do not understand how you can be so heartless.”
“If you knew what I know you'd jump so high you could crack those pretty
heels of yours together ten times before you touched the floor again,”
said he, warmly.
“Please tell me,” she cried. “I knew there was something.”
“But I am afraid so high a jump would upset you for the day. You must
wait awhile, Dagmar.” It was the first time he had called her Dagmar,
and she looked startled.
“I am not used to waiting,” she said, confusedly.
“I think I can explain satisfactorily when I have more time,” he said,
softly in her ear, and, although she tried, she could find no words to
continue. He left her at the head of the stairs, and did not see her
again until she passed him in the throne room. Then she was pale and
brave and trembling.
Prince Bolaroz and his nobles stood to the right of the throne, the
Graustark men and women of degree to the left, while near the door,
on both sides were to be seen the leading military men of both
principalities. Near the Duke of Mizrox was stationed the figure of
Gabriel, Prince of Dawsbergen. He had come, with a half dozen followers,
among a crowd of unsuspecting Axphainians, and had taken his position
near the throne. Anguish entered with Baron Dangloss and they stood
together near the doorway, the latter whiter than he had ever been in
his life.
Then came the hush of expectancy. The doors swung open, the curtains
parted and the Princess entered.
She was supported by the arm of her tall uncle, Caspar of Halfont. Pages
carried the train of her dress, a jeweled gown of black. As she advanced
to the throne, calm and stately, those assembled bent knee to the
fairest woman the eye ever had looked upon.
The calm, proud exterior hid the most unhappy of hearts. The resolute
courage with which her spirit had been braced for the occasion was
remarkable in more ways than one. Among other inspirations behind the
valiant show was the bravery of a guilty conscience. Her composure
sustained a shock when she passed Allode at the door. That faithful,
heart-broken servitor looked at her face with pleading, horror-struck
eyes as much as to say: “Good God, are you going to destroy Graustark
for the sake of that murderer? Have pity on us--have pity!”
Before taking her seat on the throne, she swept the thrilled assemblage
with her wide blue eyes. There were shadows beneath them and there
were wells of tears behind them. As she looked upon the little knot of
white-faced northern barons, her knees trembled and her heart gave a
great throb of pity. Still the face was resolute. Then she saw Anguish
and the suffering Dangloss; then the accusing, merciless eyes of
Gabriel. At sight of him she started violently and an icy fear crept
into her soul. Instinctively she searched the gorgeous company for the
captain of the guard. Her staunchest ally was not there. Was she to
hear the condemning words alone? Would the people do as Quinnox had
prophesied, or would they believe Gabriel and curse her?
She sank into the great chair and sat with staring, helpless eyes,
deserted and feeble.
At last the whirling brain ended its flight and settled down to the
issue first at hand-the transaction with Bolaroz. Summoning all her
self-control, she said:
“You are come, most noble Bolaroz, to draw from us the price of our
defeat. We are loyal to our compact, as you are to yours, sire. Yet, in
the presence of my people and in the name of mercy and justice, I ask
you to grant us respite. You are rich and powerful, we despoiled and
struggling beneath a weight we can lift and displace if given a few
short years in which to grow and gather strength. At this last hour in
the fifteen years of our indebtedness, I sue in supplication for
the leniency that you can so well accord. It is on the advice of my
counsellors that I put away personal pride and national dignity to
make this request, trusting to your goodness of heart. If you will not
hearken to our petition for a renewal of negotiations, there is but one
course open to Graustark. We can and will pay our debt of honor.”
Bolaroz stood before her, dark and uncompromising. She saw the futility
of her plea.
“I have not forgotten, most noble petitioner, that you are ruler here,
not I. Therefore I am in no way responsible for the conditions which
confront you, except that I am an honest creditor, come for his honest
dues. This is the twentieth of November. You have had fifteen years to
accumulate enough to meet the requirements of this day. Should I suffer
for your faults? There is in the treaty a provision which applies to
an emergency of this kind. Your inability to liquidate in gold does not
prevent the payment of this honest debt in land, as provided for in the
sixth clause of the agreement. 'All that part of Graustark north of a
line drawn directly from east to west between the provinces of Ganlook
and Doswan, a tract comprising Doswan, Shellotz, Varagan, Oeswald,
Sesmai and Gattabatton.' You have two alternatives, your Highness.
Produce the gold or sign the decree ceding to Axphain the lands
stipulated in the treaty. I can grant no respite.”
“You knew when that treaty was framed that we could raise no such funds
in fifteen years,” said Halfont, forgetting himself in his indignation.
Gaspon and other men present approved his hasty declaration.
“Am I dealing with the Princess of Graustark or with you, sir?” asked
Bolaroz, roughly.
“You are dealing with the people of Graustark, and among the poorest, I.
I will sign the decree. There is nothing to be gained by appealing to
you. The papers, Gaspon, quick! I would have this transaction finished
speedily,” cried the Princess, her cheeks flushing and her eyes glowing
from the flames of a burning conscience. The groan that went up from the
northern nobles cut her like the slash of a knife.
“There was one other condition,” said Bolaroz, hastily, unable to gloat
as he had expected. “The recapture of the assassin who slew my son
would have meant much to Graustark. It is unfortunate that your police
department is so inefficient.” Dangloss writhed beneath this thrust.
Yetive's eyes went to him, for an instant, sorrowfully. Then they
dropped to the fatal document which Gaspon had placed on the table
before her. The lines ran together and were the color of blood.
Unconsciously she took the pen in her nerveless fingers. A deep sob came
from the breast of her gray old uncle, and Gaspon's hand shook like a
leaf as he placed the seal of Graustark on the table, ready for use.
“The assassin's life could have saved you,” went on Bolaroz, a vengeful
glare coming to his eyes.
She looked up and her lips moved as if she would have spoken. No words
came, no breath, it seemed to her. Casting a piteous, hunted glance over
the faces before her, she bent forward and blindly touched the pen to
the paper. The silence was that of death. Before she could make the
first stroke, a harsh voice, in which there was combined triumph and
amazement, broke the stillness like the clanging of a bell.
“Have you no honor?”
The pen dropped from her fingers as the expected condemnation came.
Every eye in the house was turned toward the white, twitching face of
Gabriel of Dawsbergen. He stood a little apart from his friends, his
finger pointed throneward. The Princess stared at the nemesis-like
figure for an instant, as if petrified. Then the pent-up fear crowded
everything out of its path. In sheer desperation, her eyes flashing
with the intensity of defiant guilt, bitter rage welling up against her
persecutor, she half arose and cried:
“Who uttered those words? Speak!”
“I, Gabriel of Dawsbergen! Where is the prisoner, madam?” rang out the
voice.
“The man is mad!” cried she, sinking back with a shudder.
“Mad, eh? Because I do as I did promise? Behold the queen of perfidy!
Madam, I will be heard. Lorry is in this castle!”
“He is mad!” gasped Bolaroz, the first of the stunned spectators to find
his tongue.
There was a commotion near the door. Voices were heard outside.
“You have been duped!” insisted Gabriel, taking several steps toward the
throne. “Your idol is a traitress, a deceiver! I say he is here! She has
seen him. Let her sign that decree if she dares! I command you, Yetive
of Graustark, to produce this criminal!”
The impulse to crush the defiler was checked by the sudden appearance of
two men inside the curtains.
“He is here!” cried a strong voice, and Lorry, breathless and haggard,
pushed through the astonished crowd, followed by Captain Quinnox, upon
whose ghastly face there were bloodstains.
A shout went up from those assembled, a shout of joy. The faces of
Dangloss and Allode were pictures of astonishment and--it must be
said--relief. Harry Anguish staggered but recovered himself instantly,
and turned his eyes toward Gabriel. That worthy's legs trembled and his
jaw dropped.
“I have the prisoner, your Highness,” said Quinnox, in hoarse,
discordant tones. He stood before the throne with his captive, but dared
not look his mistress in the face. As they stood there the story of the
night just passed was told by the condition of the two men. There had
been a struggle for supremacy in the dungeon and the prisoner had won.
The one had tried to hold the other to the dungeon's safety, after his
refusal to leave the castle, and the other had fought his way to the
halls above. It was then that Quinnox had wit enough to change front
and drag his prisoner to the place which, most of all, he had wished to
avoid.
“The prisoner!” shouted the northern nobles, and in an instant the
solemn throne room was wild with excitement.
“Do not sign that decree!” cried some one from a far corner.
“Here is your man, Prince Bolaroz!” cried a baron.
“Quinnox has saved us!” shouted another.
The Princess, white as death and as motionless, sat bolt upright in her
royal seat.
“Oh!” she moaned, piteously, and, clenching her hands, she carried them
to her eyes as if to shut out the sight. The Countess Halfont and Dagmar
ran to her side, the latter frantic with alarm. She knew more than the
others.
“Are you the fugitive?” cried Bolaroz.